A Fish Out of Water
by bellaknoti
Summary: Avoiding my abusive boyfriend and pining for Zev, I found myself wandering the beach during a storm. When I accidentally drowned myself, I wasn't expecting to wake up again, but when I opened my eyes, the tattooed face that greeted me was not a dream.
1. Undertow

The journal I have kept is a chronicle of a life I only wish I could have led: one where I was important, needed, even loved. I was a sister, a friend, a lover, a warrior, a leader... a hero. A life that could never be. This world is too grey, too real. There's no room in it for elves, for magic... for gentleness. Even in my fantasy, there is a price to be paid for loving the life I led. It was paid in my blood, as usual, but his tears, which was too high a price. The last image in my story is of Zevran, curled over my dead body after I told him that I knew he loved me, and thanked him for it. All in Elvish, of course. I never even watched the epilogue, I just shut it off. If I'm dead, I don't get to know what happens. That game is full of dark choices, but I wasn't expecting _this_.

I broke him. I know I did. My beautiful, deadly assassin; nothing less could have shaken him. He was steadfast and strong, stronger than me. My protector, my heart... my soul tied to his in a way it never should have, because... because he isn't real. He isn't... but the blackness that devours my heart right now is _very_ real, and it is tearing me apart. I failed him, the only man to ever show me kindness, a gentle touch, oh, and how he could make me laugh. It had never occurred to me that a relationship like that was even possible, and I tried so hard to hang onto it with both hands.

How that laughter made Tommy jealous. I had to play the game in secret, while he was at work. Hours I stole to be spent with Zevran, time when I could be myself, no matter how it was through an avatar. Hours I spent in the shop with my journal, chronicling the life that I desperately wished to be living, a book full of light and breath and hands, friends and laughter and purpose, hidden under the edge of a table, pressed flat against the top of it, to guard the only thing I had worth looking forward to, every day. It didn't matter; it was all gone in an instant, anyway.

It's over. I made the wrong choice, putting my faith in Riordan, and died for it. I left my Zevran behind, left him adrift and alone, surely as lost as I am, now that my connection to him is gone. He'll return to Antiva, to the Crows, to being a whore and a slave, to being used and abused... and less than a person, once more.

For all intents and purposes, exactly the same fate as me: an empty life, without each other.

I stand outside my shop, looking at the house, the journal clutched tightly to my breast. Warm firelight flickers from the window, casting a patch of light across the porch, promising comforts that do not exist. If I go back into the house, Tommy will be after me, again. I've been too long in the shop, for one thing. I never fixed dinner, there is a pile of his laundry to be done by hand, because oh, it can't wait for the power to come back on, and... if he finds this journal... I shudder to think. He'll beat me, at the very least. He'll take it from me, and it will _most definitely_ go in the fire. A life without Tommy is not to be contemplated, let alone dreamed of. "Ma serannas, Zevran, na lath bor'ar revas," I wrote. Your love set me free.

This journal... it's all I have left of that impossible life, and right now I simply cannot face the prison that is my own.

It might be stupid, obsessive, even crazy, but... but I can't let go of the book, though the despair is ripping at me like nothing else ever could. I bow my head over it, and it almost seems like I can smell the spice-and-leather scent of him; it pulls a tear from my eye as I look out to sea. The storm is quiet, for now, as we sit in the eye, and a fog has crept over the beach, shrouding the night in softness and chill.

Casting a last glance back at the house, I turn my feet toward the ocean, tucking the book into the inside pocket of my coat. I don't know what I hope to accomplish, but the demise of my life demands time to be mourned, time that I will not get in the confines of my own home. So I stumble out to the beach, the darkness nearly complete. Flashes of lightning, far out to sea, light the cresting peaks of the breakers, and I head toward them blindly.

They are closer than I thought, a fact I am only aware of when I step into the water by accident. I stop, slowly backing up as I wait for my eyes to adjust. Another flash of lightning illuminates the world, and, to my horror, I realize that, not only have I stepped straight into the pull-back, but the tide is coming _in_, as a huge wave on the vanguard of the storm towers over me. I turn and run, but I'm wearing a heavy wool coat, and the sand doesn't give me enough purchase.

The wave falls on my head, swamping me and carrying me forward. I struggle upward, gaining a gasp of air, before the undertow grabs my legs, grinding me into the sand. I flail, kicking, trying to surface, but the drag pulls me back and back, down and down into the cold and the black. I swim, I swim for all I'm worth, but I know the ocean. I've lived by it all my life. You can't get dragged into the undertow of the sea at storm and hope to live. Accidental suicide: death by misadventure.

I'm human, and I can't help but fight, straining for the sky anyway. My face finally breaking the surface just as I'm about to be forced to take a lungful of water, I fight some more. I am knocked about by angry waves, the swell of the ocean tossing me like a cork, the water soaking my coat and dragging me down, and I can no longer tell which way to the shore.

As another wave crests over me, bearing me back down into the cold and dark, I do not think of home, of Tommy, of my house, the shop, my work, my estranged family, my friends, or the life I've just run from. My only thought is for him, my assassin. I feel the book sliding against my breast, and think of amber eyes. _I'm sorry... I couldn't reach you..._

They say that when you stop struggling, when you finally take that lungful of water and drown, that it is peaceful. A heavy torpor slips over me, and I let the blackness come.

_...a horrible burning..._

...a heavy, crushing weight upon my chest...

...a bright light that pierces through my eyelids...

...broken fragments of voices...

...pressure on my stomach...

I am suddenly vomiting seawater, the salty-bitter fluid pouring out of my mouth and nose in thick, stinking streams. I gag, coughing, as someone pounds on my back. I retch, again and again, my stomach muscles contracting, the air searing my lungs, my head ringing with agony and the blinding light. I moan, curling into a ball as the cacophony of sound resolves itself into men's shouts, the flap of sails, the swell of ocean waves, and the creak of rigging and wood.

Somehow, I survived the night. I am on someone's ship, that much is clear, but I am too exhausted – wrung out like an old dish rag – to do much more than lay here, coughing and shaking. I can't feel my fingers or toes. I can't really see. Someone is barking orders – I can only tell by the cadence and tenor of his voice – and I feel myself being gathered up and carried.

Sounds recede, along with the light, as I am borne somewhere inside, and the thud of a door shutting cuts off the rest. There are mutters, a man nearby and the rumble of another man's voice beneath my ear.

"...hypothermic..."

"...can heal... ...take time to return..."

"...she came from?"

"...strange..."

"...closest we've got..."

Sudden, terrible pain shoots from my fingers and toes all the way up my arms and legs, and I shriek, tensing and flailing helplessly, taking the man who is holding me by surprise, and he almost drops me.

"...knock her out already!" the man holding me says, querulously; a soft finger presses between my lips, there is the taste of something... numb... and then a warm darkness envelops me. I drift, hazy, boneless, as people move me around, move around me, talking in low tones, meaning nothing.

A short eternity later, I pry my eyes open, slitted to let in just a little bit of lamplight, yet, at first, it is brighter than fluorescent, and I squint, my eyes burning. The blurry shape of a man with a book sits in a chair nearby, one foot propped on his other knee, head bent over his reading. My mouth is dry, pickled, and tastes strange. I have to try twice before I can make any sound louder than a whisper of breath, but finally, I croak out, "Water?"

He lifts his head, his face turning toward me, just a fuzzy oval with darker patches for eyes and mouth, and I watch as he retrieves a cup from a table nearby. He comes closer, tilting it to my lips, and my eyes drift closed as I drink, oh, sweet elixir. When I open them again, I blink several times, his face swimming into focus, and then I lose a breath. I sit up suddenly, scrambling back, looking around wildly.

Many things meet my careening gaze as it sweeps across the mean, low-ceilinged room. A trunk bolted to the floor sits at the end of this bunk with its rope and leather base and mattress of ticking. There is a rough, wool blanket pooled around my waist and a man's old-style tunic covers my torso. A chair and table stand across from me, a bottle of ink and a quill upon it, as well as scrolls and a very old-fashioned leather-bound book. Everything is made of wood, and an oil lamp hangs from the ceiling. Then my eyes swing back to him, _him_, a blond man with pointed ears, dusky skin, amber eyes, and a curving tattoo down his cheek. My heart stutters with sudden fear. Am I crazy? Is this the last moment before I die, and my stupid, addled mind is trying to give me what I want before it slips away? No... the choking, the pain, these are not things I would dream of.

My gaze drops to his lap. He has my journal in his hand. It is waterlogged, but it has been dried, and it must still be legible. My eyes snap back up to his, and I am struck speechless with terror. What kind of madness is this?

"Ah, you are awake." His face is inscrutable as I watch him make a note of his place – about half way through... somewhere in the Deep Roads, to be sure. "Be calm, you are safe enough." There is an air of 'for now' hanging between us, and I'm sure my safety entirely depends on the answers I give him to whatever he's going to ask me next. All I can do is stare at him, wide-eyed, rabbity, and disbelieving.

Somehow, I manage to stutter out his name, my voice creaking like the walls of the ship. "Z- Zev?" Surely not. This has to be a fevered dream. There's no way this can be real – never mind that I remember the agony of being forced to empty my lungs of water and refill them with air.

"'Zev' to my _friends_, my good woman; 'Zevran' to all others." It is firm, but not unkind, though it punches me in the heart. He doesn't know me. He straightens up, setting my journal aside. "However, you now have me at a dual disadvantage. How is it you know my name? And who are you?"

I laugh, my voice a raw squeak. I know I sound completely hysterical, and I'm pretty sure I'm crying, too. I am pressed tightly against the ship's wall, my knees drawn up to my chest, hoping like hell that this man doesn't take it into his head that I'm not worth saving... Even though I might already be dead. I think I might just crack. If this ship is called the Dawn Treader, that's how I'll know it's a dream. It's the only ship I'd dream myself to. Or maybe I'm in RiverWorld. Maybe I'm just dead. Anyway, this man deserves an answer, and I've been staring at him like a madwoman through my spread fingers, as my palms hide my frightened expression from view.

"Ah... haha... umm..." I glance at the book by his hand, then back at his eyes, intimidated all over again. I master myself and drop my hands. "It's... uh... Lily... actually..." I admit, the answer dragged out of me slowly. Oh gods, if he doesn't believe me, I'm toast. What if he thinks I'm crazy? I _might be_ crazy. Oh gods, what is going on?

"And how is it you know my name?" he asks again, seeming to accept my name. For the moment.

"Uh..." I look down at the journal again, at his marker between the pages. Definitely about half. I'm sure I remember that right. I lick my dry lips. Is this _my_ Zev? "You... You're reading the entries about Orzammar right now. I... hated the stone. I nearly went mad. There was... nothing green... no stars... but... but at least there was sunlight." The Deep Roads were hard. Everything looked the same to me, and I always got lost, going around in circles, never finding what I needed. As I wrote it, Zev, Alistair, Wynne, and I spent probably two months of hell down there. And all that time, all I held on to was that he was all gold, her... _my_ sunlight underground. If he's _my_ Zev, this choice of phrase will be meaningful for him.

The expression on his face is queer, uncertain for a moment, before settling back to his old mask far too quickly for my happiness. "A last question, then."

I ball my fists in the sheet beneath me. Dream logic dictates I play along. "Anything."

"How did you come by this?" he asks me, tapping the book against his knee.

Oh gods, I wrote myself the same journal in the story – Tamlen made it for her, and the only thing that's really different is that the cover is made of paper, not leather – and I have no idea what might have become of it after the end of the story on my part; if this really is him, I look very suspicious right now. Chewing my lower lip, I look at him, stare at him really, willing him to believe me, begging him to. "Uh..." My gaze falls on the table, the quill, the ink, the paper. _He knows what my handwriting looks like. _Even if he's not my Zev, he's been staring at it long enough. "Can I use your quill?"

Zevran waves a hand at me, watching me the way a lazy cat does the mouse. "Feel free."

I dash over to the table, a little nervous and totally awkward from the ship's rocking, stumbling along the way as my body refuses to work the way I want it to. I am truly messed up if I've lost my sea-legs. I pick up the quill, steadying myself on the desk, and carefully draw the ink off the edge before I scratch onto the paper: _I have it because I wrote it myself. It is my journal._ For a moment I hesitate, quill-tip hovering over the paper. My eyes roll to the side, checking his expression from the corner, but his face is as expressive as a flagstone right now. Taking a deep breath, I don't let myself think it through too much and try to use a logic he would understand, one that doesn't require me to explain to him things like video games, science, and the distinct lack of magic of my world. _A recounting of the life I lived with a different pair of hands._ I look at him and hand him the quill.

Underneath his gold-tinted skin he turns grey, a hitch in his voice. "_Cara_? No! It cannot be!"

Oh, oh gods. It _is_ him.

As involved as I had been with the story, there were things that only happened in my head. Things I never wrote, but... conversations would run through my mind in the shower, or during hours spent at the lathe, monotonously turning cups. The little things I would think of, but never put down on paper. I have to draw on those; maybe it will be proof enough for him. Maybe it will make that grey cast to his skin go away. Maybe it will make it okay for him to let me – oh gods – anywhere _near_ him.

My mind skitters frantically, trying to come up with something worthwhile, some moment I thought of when it was only the two of us, no other witnesses. My gaze darts wildly about the room, seeking inspiration. Something important enough that it would have stuck with him, and not just me. My eyes land on the bed. He hogs the pillows but kicks the covers off, and is always hot as hell. No, no... anyone who had managed to sleep beside him would know that.

I am hesitating too long. _Think! Think!_ I look at the trunk, and out of sheer self-preservation, I start to free-associate. Packing crates, Bodahn's cart, wagons, travelling, mountains... I snap my fingers and point at him. "Do you remember the first trip to Denerim, and I was talking to Ignacio, paid him for something, and wouldn't tell you what it was? It drove you nuts, and it was very, very hard to keep that one, little secret. How you went after me! I just counted myself fortunate that you could tell what I hid was harmless. And then later, we were in the middle of the mountains outside Haven, it was bitterly cold, and I pulled out this little package, wrapped in green fabric: Antivan coffee. You probably guessed, but I never said: that's what I was doing that day. I was saving it for when things were... bleak... You hadn't had any for two months; we shared the entire pot over third watch, and everyone was grumpy at us for not being tired in the slightest."

"Ugh, and Wynne said I was being particularly dirty, and Morrigan accused me far more often of being a 'vile little man'," he says, snorting, responding automatically, and then he catches himself and stares at me, a smile trying to work its way over his face.

I set the ink bottle closer to him. I am so, so glad I make my avatars look like me. "You could always put them back on, if it would help. I'm sorry... they... got lost." I glance down at his quill, then back up at his eyes, touching my forehead. Dream logic, don't fail me now.

Zev goes still beside me, that strange absence of motion, his breathing almost undetectable; though I've obviously never seen it in action, this silence is familiar, one that tells me when he's caught off-guard and trying to choose his response. I hold my breath. Finally, he turns to lean his hips against the table, scooting the ink bottle aside with a back-handed gesture.

He doesn't speak for another moment or two, even after his curled finger comes to rest beneath my chin, very slowly tipping my face to one side as he eyes my bone-structure critically. I had always imagined what his touch would feel like, but I'm not really prepared for the coarseness of smoothed callus, and the gentleness of the touch. "I had always wondered what sh- _you_ would look like without them." His head cocks to the side, eyes searching my face. "You look... rather... naked, without them." Oh, gods, he believes me.

I giggle, shaky and nervous, dipping my head, and my hair falls across my face, my habitual gesture. I've learned to hide my smiles and my blushes, just as surely as my crying; it seems like no matter what world I'm in, that will probably stay the same.

Long fingers enter my peripheral a moment before they push my hair away from my face, and I only just notice as he withdraws his hand, how much it trembles. "Auck, always with this? You play games of seek and hide with me. Please."

There is a note of desperation in his voice, and I remember exactly how it must be for him... not just for me. He has lived for weeks without me, months maybe, even years. I don't know when it is right now, but he doesn't look any different here than he did in my head. Then again, he's half Dalish.

I force myself to meet his eyes. I _must_ gain this man's trust, I must be _worthy_ of it, and, above all else, I _must_ trust _him_, completely, or I'm as good as dead. "It is a bad habit I wish to break. Starting now, actually."

"That is... good..." He still looks a little grey, a little worn, a little washed out. We just stand there, staring at each other, for far too long, before he whispers, "Are you sure you are no desire demon come to haunt my waking life with what I wish for most?"

I blink. "Uh... Have you ever heard of anyone fishing a desire demon out of the sea?"

At this, he snorts. "My dear, I have heard many stories like that. Though, usually, the demon dies, once upon land."

I blink again. "Really?" Like selkies, kinda, only without the skin-stealing. Damn. "Well crap. That didn't help. I don't know what to say. That was a bad example, I guess. Uh... Hmmm... How about this, if I were a desire demon, you probably wouldn't question whether I was one?"

"I question everything, but..." He stops me by briefly laying a finger over my lips. "...To me, it does not matter if you are demon or no. It might to others, but I do not care. You are Lily enough for me, and it may cost my tattered soul, but I will take whatever it is you are willing to offer."

This cuts me so deeply, a tear springs out of my eye and rolls down my face. Oh, oh gods, I did break him, oh... I cover my mouth with my hands, staring at him, then close my eyes and shake my head. "I'm just me. No demon, no hero, no saint. I'm not even an elf anymore... This: this is what I can offer," I say, holding my arms away from my sides, gesturing to my bare legs, the tunic, and all. I don't even dare look up. "Just me. No more, but no less."

His thumb wipes my tear away, smearing it off my cheek. "Then I ask for no more than that, even though I do not deserve it. If I am mad, then I am mad. If you are here, then you are here."

"We can both be mad together, then," I whisper, taking a halting step to try to close the distance, if only a little. I can't help it; his presence is magnetic. My hands itch to touch him, but I school them to patience, my fingers flexing at my sides.

"May I..." I see him struggling. So far, he has only touched me lightly, barely-there things, like he couldn't stop himself, almost. His body vibrating at a fine tremble, I realize he is holding back just as much as – no, probably more than – I am, as I watch him subconsciously mirroring me, his hands flexing at his own sides. "May I... touch you? May... may I... hold... you?"

I shiver and nod, fearful, but feeling so lost, so much like an island. "Please." This is no mere permission, no request. It is a plea; I am practically begging, and my voice cracks on it. I could never have been prepared for what happens to me next.

My heart leaps to my throat as he closes the distance and reaches out for me, and I close my eyes, swallowing thickly, quivering on the point of running, just like a little rabbit. The heat and the strength of him, oh gods, he is like being hugged by summer; arms like steel bands wrap tightly around my shoulders, and his hot breath washes over my neck as his lips press to the curve between it and my shoulder. My mind swims, and the whole world spins around me as I lose a breath. No one has ever held me like this, like I'm their rock in a storm, like I am the only thing in all the world that they cannot live without, oh, and it is so powerful.

He is all muscle and ridged plains and valleys, bone and sinew and skin rippling with his breathing. All I can do is sag against him, my own arms locking around his waist. He is _solid_, and _real_, and _alive_. How can this feel like coming home? I never want to be anywhere else.

"Lily," he whispers, scalding my name into my skin with the heat of his breath, his lips brushing against me, making me whimper as he clutches me tightly. "We must never be so foolish with your life again."

Ooh, no kidding. No chance of that. I tremble against him, trying to make my brain work. He isn't letting go. Oh... this isn't a hug, but an _embrace_, and, well, no virgin I, but I have never experienced _this_, either. "Well... The good... ish... news is that I'm not actually a Warden anymore, either. No taint." My voice wobbles, and I try really hard not to start laughing hysterically again.

He murmurs a little, meaningless sound of dismissal against my skin, a hum vibrating his lips, and my breath hitches. "Mmh. Even if you were, I would not allow it. Let them make someone else their hero; you have done enough."

I nuzzle my face into his shoulder, inhaling the sharp scent of him that I always hoped for, but never really knew. "So far, no one knows that I'm here except you, so I don't have to be _anyone's_ hero."

He squeezes me again, squashing the breath from me, briefly, and forces a laugh. "Not even mine?"

"You're hero enough for both of us, and ten men, besides," I say, trying to stir him to a little real laughter. "You saved me, again. Every time, you're always the last man standing, the one who picks me up off the ground and brings me back." This is entirely true. In every major battle, when all of us fell, we could always manage to survive, if I could keep him standing long enough. Even if Wynne went down, when I faltered and Alistair collapsed, Zevran was the one to finish the fight. He was the one to strike the final blow to both 'Andraste' and Flemeth, the only one still on his feet after the run-in with Taliesen, the ambush by the Kadan-Fe, and almost every encounter in the Deep Roads.

There is a choked sound beside my ear, which is quickly strangled back into a facsimile of normal. "Not always."

"No. Always. It... it just took me a while to get here, this time," I argue, trying to reassure him, begging him not to blame himself.

It was entirely my fault, a decision I didn't know the consequences of until it was too late; he's blameless. If he believes nothing else, I must convince him of this one, simple truth. Somehow. 


	2. Cold Truth

As the adrenaline rush of waking up in the strangest of places wears off, I become exhausted again almost immediately, and reluctantly have to crawl back into the bunk before I fall over. I suck down another cup of water, and practically collapse sideways on the bed. "Mmmh... Drowning is awful. I don't recommend it," I mumble, burying my face in the pillow, and am rewarded with a face-full of his scent.

His touch is light as his hand crosses my shoulder. "I do not mind the results, if they bring you to me, but, there has never been much to recommend drowning... unless it is in the arms of one you care for."

Dreams are always so short. I'm already falling asleep in this one; it'll be over soon. I sigh sadly and look up at him again, taking one last look of what my life could have held, a little something to clutch tight to my breast when I reawaken in the real world, in a hospital bed, if at all, staring up at the wrong face.

The darkness of a dreamless sleep steals over me - closing in from all sides, the way a picture fades down to a narrow point on those old tv sets, when you'd turn them off - whether I like it or not, reminding me of the few times I've had to undergo anaesthesia, which does not bode well...

Not a pleasant last thought. The next thing I am aware of, like the blinking of an eye, is a very close-up view of a tanned arm. The bed I'm in is rocking, and I can hear the sound of waves beating against the hull... and there is a deathgrip on my waist, keeping me immobile. Startled, I jerk away with a squeak, my back hitting an unforgiving wall. A hand on the back of my head stops me from crowning myself on the wood.

"Shh, _cara_, you need not be frightened." It is an accented voice, with that hot whiskey burn – I know that voice.

Focusing my wild gaze on him, my impossible man, all the fight goes out of me in a rush. "Zev? You– you're real!" Before he can say anything I surge forward and lock my arms around him, burying my face in his neck, babbling incoherently. "Oh gods! Oh gods, I'm still here; I was so scared, so scared I would wake up," I choke on it, my voice breaking, "...and... and find it was all just– just a dream."

For a moment he tenses, then returns my desperate embrace. "That would be why I did not dare to sleep." He says this as though it is completely logical, and I shake in his arms, knowing that if I could have stayed awake, I would have, too. "I could not bear awakening to it being nothing more than a figment."

"Either we both are, or neither of us is, I think. I'm not sure which one means we're not crazy. I'm not sure I much care, just so long as... you... don't let go," I finish in a whisper. Oh, gods, I've never felt safe before, but here, in this moment with him clutching me as though I were the only thing in his world, I couldn't be anything else.

I bury my face in his neck; I know I'm trembling like a leaf. It is going to take me a very long time to get used to the idea of where I am, this new reality... this dream, this whatever-it-is that I hope doesn't suddenly vanish. Something in the way his hands move across my back, the way his fingers tangle in my hair... something about the way his arms enfold me, pulling me tightly to his chest, it breaks me. I never cry in front of anyone, ever. I learned a long time ago that crying is another invitation to be hurt, because it made Tommy look more closely at his actions, which never failed to anger him further. But here, now, there's no holding it back anymore. Eight years of terror and pain I thought I would never escape suddenly well up in me, and I sob all over Zevran's neck in a sudden torrent, clinging to him.

The side of his chin presses to my temple. "I am here _cara_; I am real. Shh, it is all right, let it go."

More sounds, the sorts of nonsensical things someone says to a frightened child, are whispered into my ear, his hold on me never slackening. I am beyond grateful for it, and cannot close the floodgate that has been thrown open. Everything narrows down to the burning in my face as I strain while the tears fall, gasping for air, and the myriad tiny things that make the man in my arms someone worth clinging to: the rough linen of his tunic balled in my fist, the way his Adam's apple bobs as he murmurs to me, the smell of salt water and leather, his lips on my cheek, the strength in his arms – all of it. That's all I can focus on. It's more than I've _ever had_ to focus on. I am a tiny storm in the circle of his safety, trying desperately to blow itself out.

At last, I cry myself exhausted, subsiding to shudders, my body still trying to release all the tension I have kept locked inside for so long. I am hot, and I want to wash my face; I want to pull my hair back and free it from my neck; the tunic sticks to me and I want to take it off, but all of these actions mean moving, mean him letting go of me, and I can't do it. In this strange place, on this ship bound for gods-know-where, he is all I know, all I have to cling to, and I cannot let go. I drift, semi-conscious for a while, finding a centre of balance at last. I drag the sleeve of the tunic over my face, making the best of it, and finally relax.

After a time, Zev stirs. "_Cara_, it has been some time now since I last ate, and I think after all that, you will need some more water, yes?" He does not move to let go of me, but I know that we can't stay like this forever. "Besides, I am certain that there is another who would wish to see you, as well, and I do not think he would be amused if I were to keep you from him, as he is the one who first saw you in the sea."

I pull back just enough to look up at him. Oh gods. Who else? It suddenly occurs to me that everyone, _everyone_, is real. I'm probably going to meet them all, at some point. Oh no. _Alistair_. How badly has he torn himself up, after I told him he didn't have to do it, and then left him _at the gate_? Oh... Oh no, what if _he_ was the other man, the one who carried me in here? One thing at a time. "Uh... who?" In lieu of answer, Zev kisses my forehead, his thumb stroking over my cheekbone softly, and I close my eyes. A simple gesture, a tiny kindness, a gentle thing... entirely missing from my life until this moment, since I was a small child, and this has me lose a little breath with a surprised pang of bittersweet joy.

"I shall send him in shortly," he says, opaque, but I see a little bit of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Do... Should I get dressed?"

"I doubt he will even notice your state, _cara_," he replies, and slowly, reluctantly, he leans back. I can tell that he doesn't want to leave the bed, that he has to force himself to rise. I push myself up to sitting, leaning against the wall, watching him. He moves like a cat, all smooth grace and silent footsteps. With a last glance over his shoulder for me, he slips out the door. I run my fingers through my tangled hair, looking around the tiny cabin again, still trying to wrap my head around what is happening.

A few minutes later, I am startled as the door opens without warning and a humongous dark brown and black shape comes barrelling through it and straight over to the bed. I shriek as I have the vague impression of a gigantic nose surrounded by a maw full of teeth, right before a tongue half the size of my face flops out and bathes it with slobber. I stare, shocked, at the giant dog dancing back and forth in front of the bunk, excited enough to almost knock over the chair, his butt wiggling every which way, so hard I'm surprised his little nub of a tail doesn't just fall right off. "Ponka?"

For this, I am rewarded with a sharp, happy bark, and then the beast is laying across my lap, his huge head tucked up under my chin. I wrap my arms around his neck as he wriggles happily and rubs his face against mine. "Oh no, I'm sorry you missed me," I croon, shocked and elated at the same time. If _he_ recognizes me - an imprinted mabari! - all should be well, right? It's strange and counter-intuitive, but I must still smell the same. That's actually kind of reassuring, that my body isn't so different that he wouldn't recognize it. I discreetly wipe my face with a sleeve, while Ponka is busy sniffing my armpit. Dogs are weird.

"If it had not been for him, we would not have found you." Zevran gives Ponka's butt a gentle whap to get my beast to make enough room for him to sit down. "The squall that blew up from the east was strong, and everyone with any sailing skill was pressed into service reefing the sails and storm-tying everything down. Truly, I should have left him in the cabin, but he can be rather single-minded. I thought his barking would never stop, and only narrowly did I keep him from jumping into the water."

I think about that for a moment before I ask, my voice low and nearly toneless, "Who jumped in?" Ah, but I know the answer.

He shrugs, as though it is nothing of note or consequence. "I did."

And I think about _that_ for a moment. A ship at sea, even one that runs on wind, moves pretty damned fast. In movies, sure, people jump off ships all the time, but that's in _movies_. Physics are basically the same everywhere, though, and the speed of a ship on a storm wind with high-cresting waves, not to mention how _hard_ the surface of the sea would be to impact from the height of the deck – this equals a highly dangerous situation. It doesn't matter if someone is a strong swimmer, it is pretty damned crazy to jump off a deck into storm-whipped waters, and he wouldn't have been able to use a safety line either, because it would have been too easy to keelhaul himself. I feel the blood drain from my face, and reach toward him with a shaking hand, knowing what it meant for his state of mind... Because he didn't know it was me.

He only knew that Ponka would have jumped over, and he must have figured that Ponka's life, and the life of whomever was out there, was worth more than his. Gods, he probably didn't even _care_ about the consequences. I know he's not afraid of death, and tends to thrill-seek, but this is far more than that. He likes an adventure, but he's not _stupid_. He knew there was a possibility he would have been throwing his life away, and he did it anyway.

"We... uh... shouldn't play with _your_ life either..." I say, hoping he doesn't take it like I'm telling him what to do, but as a request.

The look he gives me is knowing. "Not anymore, no. However, there are some things I cannot change." He fixes me with his eyes, and I have a sinking feeling I know what he's going to say next. My fingers curl, burying themselves in Ponka's fur, and my beast goes still, lifting his head to give me a worried look. "We are bound for Antiva."

I close my eyes, the dread piling into my stomach. "Oh no." I swallow. I am not going to throw up. "Uh... That's really, really bad."

He smirks. "You don't say. Ah, but I did hope to show you some of the lovely gardens. Besides, the Crows should not be so difficult to deal with, with you at my side."

"I want to see them," I say, in all honesty. "But... You don't understand. There's... a really big problem. I am so little of what I was the last time you saw me. Everything has been... stripped from me." There, that's about as accurate as it gets.

He blinks a few times, brow creasing. "Everything? Not just your _vallaslin_ and your elvenness?"

My hand strays self-consciously to my rounded ear, and I wince. "I know. I'm a _shemlen_. It kinda feels like I got demoted." I shake my head. I know, logically, I couldn't be here if Lily Mahariel were still alive – there would have been no reason for me to be out there in the storm, on the beach, like an idiot, if she had been. I couldn't come here as her, only as myself. Still, I regret that I haven't got more to offer him. I pull hard on the time I spent building up the language of the elves, hoping that this will cement my position in his mind as a _shemlen_ version of Lily Mahariel. The idea that he's lost someone so awesome because of _my_ lame ass just chafes too much; I'd rather say that I'm a lesser incarnation. "_Emma elvhen elgar suledin_, but... that... _el'dirthen_... is all I have left... well, and you two, apparently. I cannot fight. I am not entirely toothless, but I am..." I grope about for the right way to express it. _(My elven soul endures... our language)_

"Defenceless in all practical senses of the term," he finishes, eyes closing in consternation. Ponka snorts, and I scratch his ear. I know he will defend me, but he shouldn't have to, not like that. Zevran turns his face aside, shaking his head. There is a note of cold pragmatism in his voice when he continues. "Tch, well." He pauses, and I can almost hear the gears clicking in his head. "It is another month until we make our first landfall, and one more from there to Antiva. We shall have to work hard to get you to some semblance of skill. Antiva City is lovely and beautiful, but the Crows – they are not so forgiving of the inexperienced."

I hang my head. What he leaves unsaid is that I am a _liability_ – one he can ill-afford. He was one man with a warhound against a guild of assassins, and now he is _still_ one man with a warhound against a guild of assassins, but now with a big handicap: me. Not only that, but... even if he does get me up to some kind of ability to at least _move_, that doesn't change the fact that I've never killed a man, and I don't know how it's going to go when, inevitably, I will have to. I'm a carpenter, no warrior.

"_Fuck."_ It is heartfelt, and only half under my breath, as I grind the heel of my hand into the suddenly aching point between my eyes.

My curse catches Zev off-guard, and he flinches. "Pardon?"

"Uh..." I rub my face with both hands. Lily Mahariel wouldn't have uttered such a thing, because it is crass, and there are so many other things that can be said, in any situation. However, when faced with this one, in particular, we would be in agreement: we're fucked. "Sorry. It's... just hitting me really hard, the towering risk and disadvantage my presence is; right when you need me to stand strong at your side, I am a babe in the woods. I... I could hold my own in a brawl, but against the Crows?" I take a deep breath, shaking my head. "I've got no resistance to anything poisonous or magical anymore, I can't wield anything bigger than a short sword, uh... and I can't pick locks, make poison, or create poultices. Well, I might be able to fudge my way through those last two, but the rest?" I shake my head again. "I used up whatever grace we've been given, just getting here. I count myself fortunate that I have any memories at all."

"Before I found you, _cara mia_, I had nothing to lose," he says slowly, choosing his words with care. "When first I fished you from the sea, I thought I was mad to see a resemblance in you. I discounted it, even as I hoped for it to be true." I bite my lip, my gaze sliding away and down to my hands, where they twist in the hem of the tunic. "Now I have much to lose, but that does not mean we should rush headlong. Now it is time for focusing on one thing at a time. One foot in front of the other. We look forward now, not backward. The first step that must be taken is for us to get you strong enough to use a dagger. From there, we work our way upwards. You may never regain all your lost skills, but we shall work towards ensuring you can survive without constant guarding."

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. If I have to put my faith in one man, here he is. I can't do this. There are so many things wrong with my body; it's not going to stand up to armour and weapons training. I _have_ to do this, though, there's no choice. Not for my sake, but for his. "Okay. Where do I begin?"

"Food and water first, or perhaps second. While you look good in my tunic, you could do with some fresher clothes." Ponka's ears perk, and he flops off the bed, rolling around on his back on the floor, before scooting away and taking up half the cabin on the other side of the room. Standing up, Zev holds his hand out to me.

I take another deep breath. He's already seen me naked by now, right? Plus, uh, technically, I've already slept with him many, many times. Right. No reason to panic. Ah, but I feel myself turning ten shades of red anyway, and I can't raise my eyes, even as I take his hand. I am not going to giggle like a schoolgirl. I bite my lip, trying to hold it in.

He chuckles. "So many colours you turn. Ah, most charming."

I am not going to giggle like a schoolgi- ah, man, too late. The laughter bursts forth anyway, embarrassing me, but he seems to take it in stride, humour lighting his eyes. It looks so good on him.

"Come now, if it will make it easier I could turn my back, or... perhaps help, while in the same state?" The rakish tilt of his smile takes my breath away.

I turn scarlet at the idea of this man being naked with me, plus bathing, and shiver. What falls out of my mouth is not quite what I intended, when I get trapped by his gaze, but my brain sort of hisses white noise all of a sudden, and I am entirely artless. "What, no kiss?"

His eyes darken, and the intensity in his gaze intimidates me; his grip is firm as he pulls me to him. "A kiss, yes," he murmurs, his voice a low burr that makes me tremble inside. "Maybe two. One now, one after." My heart just about stops, in this moment where I realize it's actually going to occur.

That is all the warning I have before his free hand cups my cheek and his face is suddenly very close to mine. My eyes widen even as his lids sink low, and then his mouth is on mine. His _mouth_ is on _mine_. I wrap my arm around his neck, finding my fingers in his hair, and... oh gods... How many times have I imagined this, writing down what he would taste like, thinking of him doing this very simple thing as I ran my fingers across my own lips? None of it, none of it compares. All I can do is whimper.

There are tiny details, ones I had never really thought of, that take me entirely by surprise. Things like how _sharp_ his teeth are when I run my tongue over them or how the tip of his nose presses into my cheek; the heat of his slow breathing falling down in little gushes over my skin, or how his eyelashes lay on his cheekbones, and how long they really are; the grain of his skin, or the fact that the underside of his tongue is like silk and the upper part is rough - almost like a cat's tongue. Every single part of me stands at attention and the room spins; all that holds me up is his arm winding around my waist, pulling me flush against him.

As his fingers splay across my lower back, I slowly become aware of the fact that I can feel a _whole lot more_ than I had paid attention to last night – or whenever it was – when I fell asleep. He is thick and hard, pressing against my hip, right at the top of my thigh, and oh... oh _gods_. Suddenly, all I can think about is getting closer to him, _right now_, and I arch forward, my breasts crushing against his chest. A guttural moan escapes him, a low growl under his breath, and I shudder at how hungry he sounds, how it perfectly echoes the sudden aching tug that yanks my soul forward by the hair.

It takes a visible effort of will for him to tear his mouth away from mine, and he abruptly sets me at arm's length. "_Cara, Lily mia ... sarebbe una cattiva idea_," he mutters hoarsely, and my mind races as I try to remember the tiny amount of Italian I picked up while trying to write him. Something is very wrong if he can't remember how to speak Eng- Common. Is that... 'Bad idea'? "No. No, we must stop."

Breathless and dizzy, I stare at him, in shock and entirely confused. I can _feel_ the want pouring off of him, and it mirrors mine. It takes me a moment to find the words, to remember how to speak at all. "W- What?"

"We must." The torture in his eyes cuts me to the heart. "We must be careful. This may be real, you may be no demon, but... but there are _tales_ that go thusly. We must... we must be _careful_. I could not bear for the bad endings they foretell to befall us."

For a moment, it occurs to me to protest on the grounds of superstition, but then I realize... I'm beholden to some fairy tale rules, here, if magic is real, and of course, it must be, because I shouldn't even be here. Dream logic and fairy tale rules. Zevran is the only one who would know some of that... The game doesn't really cover the mythology that children learn at their mother's – or a bard's – knee, so I listen. After all, Morrigan knew things that could've– I slam the door on that thought and take a deep breath, trying to force down the distracting clamour in my body, as well. "Tell me what we must do."

He closes down and goes opaque on me. "Ah... later. Right now, we should... regather ourselves." Almost nervously, he shifts away, and I pull my hands back, wrapping my arms around my waist, where they can't get me in trouble. "I will go and gain us a bucket of fresh water to bathe you. Salt is no good for skin such as yours."

Fresh water? I feel my mouth drop open. "Wait, but if we've got a month until landfall, isn't that a luxury?" I can't tell him I've lived by the ocean all my life; salt water doesn't hurt me, but... there are too many other things going on right now for us to worry about where I've come from. He's right, we have to keep running forward. Looking back is bad.

He shrugs. "I have not been touching my ration much. A half-pail is not so great a thing to lose. This ship is part of the Ferelden navy: it holds no merchandise, only things for delegates and important personages." His lips twist. "Apparently I qualify as an important person, or important enough."

If I hadn't left him, maybe he wouldn't be doubting himself so much now. I bite my lip. "You are to me."

His smile is tight, and he reaches out, one finger crossing my lower lip. "And your opinion is the only one that matters to me. I shall return briefly; I must go and see if there is more in my belongings in the hold that may fit you."

His gaze rakes me once from head to toe, like he wants to store this moment in his mind, before he leaves me alone with Ponka. It is a sick feeling in my stomach – there are more than simply 'his' things in the hold, if his mood and what I know of him are anything to go by. I wonder if he has the other copy of the diary, even. It'd be interesting to see the drawings. I bet she was a better artist, too.

Ohhh... Why couldn't this be like a Rosenberg novel and I just get to inherit my character's skills? I begin pacing. This is going to kill me. Oh, gods. I have got to figure out how to catch up, and quickly. I have to force my body to do what it is not supposed to, somehow, without breaking myself. There's no way I can put him through that again. No way. So I _have_ to catch up; there is no other option. I have to do it so I can protect him by protecting myself.

And I've only got two months to prepare.

Gods help us; that's not even enough time for someone to go through boot camp. 


	3. Fairy Tale Rules

I'm trying. I really am. I listen to everything he says. I focus, and I do what he shows me with a single-minded determination, no matter how my back begins to protest. I cannot drag him down. I cannot fail him, not ever. Never again.

Two days pass with infuriating slowness as I try to follow him, but he is... There is something wrong. He will not speak to me straight, and has evaded my attempts to get him to tell me the tales that he alluded to before. When I finally lay myself down, exhausted, he will lay next to me, but then as soon as I am asleep, he moves to the floor. The _floor_.

Now we are meant for me to be practising at blades, and he has pretty much _let me_ score on him three times. I stop, resting the tip of the practice sword lightly against the deck between my feet. I hold his gaze, trying to understand what is happening behind that mask, and getting nowhere. I press my lips together and bow my head, then simply turn and walk back toward his cabin.

He follows me, and I lay the sword across the desk, my back still to him as the sudden quiet tells me he has shut the door. I cannot face him, not with what I have to say next. It has been eating at me this entire time, taking a bite out of me every time he evades answering my questions, every time he changes the subject, every time he shies away from my touch, but will not tell me why.

I work hard to keep my voice level. "I come to you as a child, but I'm the same woman - my heart, my soul, my thoughts, they are the same. I remember when I could do the things that I cannot now force my body to cooperate with, but what I can't remember are the steps to the dance, the ingredients and processes to the things I could make, the feel of the lock under my fingers... all of these things are gone from me, and I must begin again. Yet you _humour_ me." I swallow, hard, and continue quickly, before he can say anything. "Could it be that you wonder whether your efforts will be wasted? That I will suddenly manifest some hidden, fel magic, and prove myself to be less than a person?" I trail off, my shoulders tensing for the one thing that I fear the answer to the most. "Or is it just that it is too inevitable that I will fail you again?"

He hisses as though at a stinging wound. "No. No, not that at all. How could you possibly value yourself so little, _cara_, that you could entertain the mere thought of such a thing?"

"It was a long, dark road that brought me to you," I tell him, my shoulders hitching. "What can I think when you won't answer me straight?"

Hot hands wrap around my upper arms, pulling me so that I lean my back into his chest, and I close my eyes, bracing myself. What he says next, though, is not what I expect. "There was a man, long ago, who was the captain of a ship. When he was out to sea, during rough waters, there was a cry for help. He had recently lost his wife in child-bed, and unthinking of his own life, sought to save someone else's, when he could not save those who meant so much to him."

The cadence of his voice is like that of someone merely recounting a fireside tale, but I listen closely. There are parallels that I don't dare ignore, and at least he seems to be answering me. Sort of.

"When his crew lowered ropes to swiftly pull their captain and the drowning person from the water, they saw that it was a woman. Impossible... but there were some bits of flotsam drifting in the water; perhaps she had come from some recently sunken ship." I can feel his heartbeat against my back, through our shirts, and it is pounding. "The captain took her in, fed her, clothed her; eventually... he fell in love with her. She was kind and sweet, and as wild as the ocean she had been rescued from. He was a merchant and, other than his dealings in cargo, he had no need to go to land. Being a captain carries the benefit of being able to marry two people while at sea, and so, his wife had never had need to set foot upon land. There had never been any thought to an issue. She even bore him three strapping children: two boys and a girl, perfect little things, who were just like their parents. A happy family, yes?"

I shiver and nod. So far, so good, but this is how horror movies start.

He takes a deep breath, his hands tightening on me, and his voice goes a little toneless. "One day, during a search in a small city for gifts for his family, he suffered a heart complaint and collapsed. His family, loving and dutiful, rushed to be by his side. Upon land. For the first time, they set their feet upon the ground... It took them hours to die, even as they struggled to reach him. His daughter was crawling by the time she got to his bedside, the flesh eaten away from her muscle and bone. None dared help any of them, terrified that it may be some plague or curse; each had continued on until their bodies gave out entirely. It was the sight of his little girl, unidentifiable but for a pair of earrings he had bought her for an earlier birthday, that drove him to madness."

My nails scrape across the wood of the desk as my fingers flex into claws. Fairy tale rules. "Is there nothing else told of the man? Or his wife? Causes for such a thing? Where she may have come from?"

Zevran shakes his head, leaning forward so he can press his cheek to mine, and I scrunch my eyes tightly shut, feeling my mouth pull down into a helpless grimace. How can I guard against something that has no clear parameters? Don't eat someone's house, beware of step-mothers, don't accept apples from strange old women, always listen carefully to instructions from your fairy godmother, leave a trail of white stones to guide your way out of the forest, don't look back if something is chasing you - these rules are easy. This, though, how do I defend against _this_? My mind trips and skitters over all the folklore I've read, trying to come up with something I can apply. Oh, but there's more.

"There was a young woman in a fishing village, some time ago. She was branded 'witch' by the locals, for when the summer fevers came, all died in her family but she." I sigh. Even here, where there is magical healing. "She was blind and white-eyed, and had been her entire life, but that had never stopped her from learning the fisherman's trade from her father. He taught her how to sail better than his sons, and she was an independent thing, able to smell the changes in wind and salt in the water, to hear the creaking of the small boat and the way water sprayed; she could navigate the reefs with nary a problem. It was this, in part, that made the locals think her queer and witchy."

I tense, waiting for the other boot to drop. Surely not all castaways are doomed to never set foot on land?

"Not only was she blind, but she was ugly; where once, before the fever, she had been comely enough, now she heard the catcalls of others, and knew that they found her repulsive." Ah, but people are cruel. He turns me toward him, wrapping his arms around me, continuing his story, and I tuck my face against his shoulder, curling into his chest. "But a body has to eat, and she had the skill to fish on her own, so she did. One day, the water sounded different, and there was frantic splashing. She called out to see if anyone was near; perhaps they were in trouble? A voice answered, strangled and choking; a man was in the water Strong from years of hauling nets and self-reliance, she pulled him to safety, into her tiny little boat. From nowhere, a storm came, blowing the fishing vessel this way and that, like a leaf in a trough that children splash in. No matter her navigational skills, it was all she and the man could do to steady the ship and keep it from capsizing.

"Days they spent upon the water together, in close proximity. He thanked her profusely for her help, and apologized that he had been the harbinger of such a squall. She was no longer used to dealing with people, and so was gruff with him. Even so, he was sweet to her, no matter that she thought it might be sun-sickness or misplaced gratitude, always rebuffing him, no matter that they slept curled close together. Together, they caught rainwater and ate raw fish, until he spied land, and she guided them ashore. When they reached land, he helped her drag the ship up, with ropes, and lashed it to trees. He was whole and untouched by having set foot to land.

"Eventually she believed his steadiness, and his proclamations of more than friendship. They lived a happy enough existence on that strip of land, even when others came and a small village sprung up. When she died one day – old, and having lived a long, happy life – he went stiff, dropping to the ground and fading away like a breath upon the wind. Their children and grandchildren told this story for generations, and it probably grew in the telling as all stories do."

I am clutched by a blind panic, my heart fit to fly right out of my chest, but I do my level best to keep my voice steady. "There are many stories like this? All castaways fall to pieces once reaching the shore if they find love while they are on the water, and become too intimate? This is a certainty?" The main thing about fairy tale worlds is that they can be warped by the critical mass of a consensus of belief.

"Not all castaways to be sure – those rescued from ships that sink are normal flesh and blood." He shrugs, his shoulder flexing beneath my cheek. "But you appeared from nowhere, and a storm blew in at the same time."

"I stood upon a shore before you found me in the water," I counter, a thread of my desperation showing through in my voice. This, then, might be our out: I am normal flesh and blood. I am not a spirit creature, made of magic.

I can feel his grimace. "That was then - this is now. A storm and no sunk ship? An impossibility of resurrection?"

"No: incarnation, not resurrection. I was swept away by the tide," I protest weakly, knowing that there's really no arguing with fairy tale rules.

"We are _all_ swept away by tides." He steps back enough to look me in the eye, and I am struck silent by the despondency that grips me, realizing that I must guard so carefully against my own worst enemy: me. "You appeared at sea, with a storm heralding your arrival. There was no ship. And... I held your..." I feel my face crumple in pain, even as he tries to hide his own. "Your body," he trips over it, forcing the word out. "Not this one. The... other one. You were dead, and now you are here again, in a different form. Stripped bare. I do not... I could not..." His jaw clenches. "I cannot go through it again. So I take precautions."

I take a deep breath through my nose, closing my eyes and trying to centre myself again. Oh, just being around him is going to be an exercise in willpower, all the time, especially in such close quarters. I open my eyes again, steeling myself against the way his gaze settles on me almost like a physical touch. "It's the last thing I want, as well. If it is to keep me safe, then anything you say we must do, we must do."

Zevran smooths his hand over my hair, kissing my forehead, and I cannot help but lean into his touch. This hard man... how gentle he is with me. "All of those are stories told at camp fires, or during night watches. Tragedies and happy tales... they are both."

"And yet, we have witnessed impossible things," I say, thinking of Andraste's temple. "At this point, I would be a fool to discount any tale, out of hand." Oh gods, can you hear me all the way out here? Lend me the strength to survive this mess.

He nods. "Just so. It may or may not be true, but... I dare not risk it. I cannot. I am sorry, _amora mia_, but I must remain firm on this."

I nod, squaring my shoulders a little. If it is necessary, then it is necessary. I must remain resolute. "Did you think I wouldn't understand this? That I could not... bear this with you?"

"No, no... it is..." He grunts in frustration, dragging his fingers through his hair. "It is that I do not wish to break whatever spell has brought you here. I've no wish to regain you, only to lose you once more. If I owned a ship, I would never let you set foot on ground, just to be sure."

I rest my forehead against his breastbone. "Yet, you do not, and I do not, and so I will have to step ashore eventually. And if, at that time, I am not prepared to defend myself, even if just a little bit, then we will fail anyway."

He turns partially away from me. "I know, but if I can prevent one risk, by suffering some now, I am glad to do so, Lily _mia_. I thought... perhaps, if I merely distracted you from the discomfort, it would not bother you. A foolish man's hopes most likely, but hopes nonetheless."

Reaching out to him, I trace that line of ink in his flesh, still not used to it, still marvelling at how natural the gesture feels to me. "You're not foolish, except perhaps in thinking that I would willingly let you suffer _alone_."

Zevran turns his face into my hand, mouth brushing against my palm. "Ah, beautiful and deadly and compassionate, my dear Warden is."

"Compassionate, maybe... but Warden no longer..." I give him a little smile. "Working on the deadly part."

His golden eyes almost glow with their intensity. "Is a Warden not someone who wards ill things away? If this is so, then you should already be aware of what you ward me from."

Loneliness. Pain. _Thing_dom. He so clearly puts so much stock in those things, even though I'm... really not that great, not when compared to who he has lost. I just care for him, and hopefully I care for him as much as he truly deserves. Anyone with a heart in their breast would, if they had a lick of sense. There is so much life thrumming through his veins that it steals my breath, making me ache to hold him close, to stand between him and anything... everything.

As though he can read my thoughts, he leans into me, nuzzling my face lightly, his mouth moving against mine as he speaks. "Shh, smile for me _cara_. I do not like these so-serious looks you always have. Your face is one that should be graced with happy smiles. We have a second chance; do not fret so."

I can't help it, I tilt my face, begging silently for him to kiss me again. "I can't let you do all the worrying, you know."

"Ah, but I still smile, my Lily. What might I do to earn one of those sweet expressions from you, hmm?" His lips vibrate against mine as he hums, giving me a tiny, playful kiss.

That's all it takes; I start to laugh, but it quickly turns into a moan when he slips his tongue into my mouth. Heat rushes to my head and I arch against him. Really, kissing is no way for us to be careful, but I can't find it in me to care, not with the firm press of his lips to mine, and the searing handprints on my hips. I give a happy half-moan, half sigh when he breaks away, smiling up at him drunkenly.

"Ah, now that is what I was looking for," he says, nipping my bottom lip and giving me a roguish half-wink.

Ohhh... Heh. He can have anything he wants. Man, that's dangerous.

I'm not sure I care. I'll follow him to the ends of the earth.

I just... I just gotta keep my hands to myself.

Ohhh... I'm toast.


	4. Insomnia

It's been over a week. Ten days. There are still eleven days left until we reach first landfall.

Some days, I fall down exhausted. Those are the best days, because then I just crash out and don't know anything else until morning. But... of those, there have only been four, not counting the first day. That leaves six nights of exponentially increasing frustration.

I've never had this problem before. It _hurts_. I wasn't expecting it to _hurt_.

Okay, maybe the _hurt_ part might be the fact that we're on a rocking ship and while yes, my sea-legs have returned, it does make for interesting balance issues when trying to whip a short sword about, though I think Zevran may just be about to make me downgrade to long daggers instead. We have been stepping back and forth, dancing side to side, executing lunges and parries, and spinning to meet attacks or start new ones. That all adds up, especially since I haven't been _this_ active since I lived on the streets.

Sure, that is _part_ of why I am in absolute agony, but... the main issue is something else entirely.

A little thing. Right now, my assassin is shirtless, in a pair of breeches, with cuffs rolled up to his knees, looking like a pirate, scampering around in the rigging like a monkey. Even from my position on the deck, I can see his muscles move under his bronze skin, can almost _hear_ his easy breathing as he exerts himself - and that... Oh, that is _sexy_. He makes everything look like a _dance_. Pirate Zevran - oh, my heart.

I ache, I burn for hands that are like mine - work-callused but not coarse, only much, much tougher - for the weight and strain of that body pressed up against mine... and I can't have it. Not _yet_. I hang onto that thought, that when we finally land, I can have him.

I am not going to think about the eventuality of the Crows. Not right now. Not when Zevran is twisting along a line, hanging by his hands and locked ankles, pulling himself along the rope. It's all kinds of hard to think about much anyway, since my eyes are hungrily devouring every move he makes as he climbs down, stopping a few feet from the deck before he flips outward, landing with all the practiced ease of a cat.

"Ah, that was a nice run," he says, stretching. He flings his arms up wide and rolls up onto the balls of his feet before leaning down to touch his toes. "Really gets the blood pumping!"

_Oh baby, you have no idea, do you?_ The _wrong_ thought skitters across my mind and I shy from it immediately, trying, every moment, to think about something, anything else.

Somehow, I dredge up the strength to do nothing more than smile, keeping my hands busy rubbing Ponka down. "Feel better?" I ask him, by way of distracting myself. I miss my shop. I miss being able to go in there and pound the shit out of some wood until I made something useful out of all my excess energy and frustrations. Now, the only thing to occupy them is the dog, if not the blade, and it's not enough. It's not nearly enough. Nothing is.

Oh, gods, I'm not gonna make it. I'm gonna just burn up in a little puff of ash, before we ever get there.

"Hmm... yes," he murmurs, as he finishes another long stretch before he holds his hand out to me. "...But it is time for rest. Tomorrow is a new dawn, so the saying goes."

We are trying, so, so hard. We can't stand to be apart completely, but every kiss is a bittersweet agony, every touch burns. At night, we lay in the bunk together, pressed and desperately trying to be calm, until either I fall asleep or we just can't stand it anymore, and then he moves to the floor. It is _painful_. I never thought that I would be this way, that such torment could exist. True, I have always had a libido, and yes, it has gotten me into trouble before, but there are _ways_ of relieving tension, and while I know Zevran probably wouldn't mind, I... sort of... do. I don't think I can do anything to make the burn less with him laying on the hard, wooden floor, not much more than a foot away from me. Even after all the searing kisses... and his hands... I cover my face with my own hands and turn to the side, willing myself to motionlessness and focusing on stilling my breathing, running through my meditation ritual that I do during sleepless nights, a form of labyrinth I built in my own mind that I push myself through over and over again, until I find myself waking up. It is not as distracting as I would like it to be, not with the screaming ache, the fiery need that coils in my stomach, that is constantly crying for something I cannot give in to.

Oh, but I have to try.

I must have been quiet long enough for him to think me asleep, because I hear Zev shift around a little, and then a near silent sigh. I keep chanting in my head, trying not to think about it - _oh, his breath and the rise and fall of his chest, and_ - and take deep breaths. His breathing hitches once, twice, and I feel my brow furrow as my eyes pop open, despite how useless that gesture is in the total darkness that is a window-less cabin with the door shut. I listen to his breathing changing, and suddenly realize with a rush of blood to my face what it is, exactly, that he's doing.

Oh gods, I haven't said this since the first time I saw Labyrinth and decided Sarah was a whiny brat who should've traded herself for Toby instead of shooting down the Goblin King's affections, but oh, that's not _fair_. I've been a writhing mess of agony, and he is at least doing something, anything, letting some of his frustrations out, and he is waiting until I'm asleep to do it. Like a thief in the night, he steals this relief, while I lay here burning up with a desire hotter than the fire of a thousand suns.

I bow my head, my hand slipping over my mouth. It is the tiny, muffled thread of Antivan that finally breaks me, the words I only recognize by the cadence of the whispering breath that carries them: the things he says to me when he forgets to speak English. He could be thinking of anyone, anything, but he isn't. It's me. But which version? Is it wrong to be jealous of a woman who is technically myself? Right now, I really, really am, because if I were her, this would not be happening; he would be in this bed, with me, instead of on the floor, pretending.

Is he thinking of a face with tattoos, or without? Are we the same to him? Does it matter? It does. I don't know why, but it does. Ohh, and I don't want to know.

Slowly, slowly, so that I do not make any sudden noises, I slide my free hand downward, over my stomach, and between my legs, clamping my thighs tightly together so that the motion of my fingers won't transfer to anything around me. I try to focus on my breathing, keeping it even and steady, though I can hear him becoming, almost silently, ever more undone.

I bite my lip as I try to match his rhythm, exhaling when he does, drawing breath as he does, my hand moving in sync to the rhythmic whisper of fabric, and... oh... my mind slips to those things I would think in the shower, in the shop, or curled in the corner of the bedroom, alone, dreaming of him, only now there is a very real shape and form to be put to these phantom desires, and he is breathing far too erratically, right next to me on the floor. I am suddenly overwhelmed by a strong sense-memory of the first time he kissed me, just a week and a little more ago - no matter how it was his hundredth, his thousandth taste of me - and I break the rhythm as my breath stutters, giving me away.

"_Cara_?" He pauses, whispering only loud enough that I would hear it while awake, and take no note of it if I were asleep.

I freeze, biting down on my lower lip, my eyes scrunching shut.

There is shifting, quiet and careful, and I feel him sitting up on the floor, a hand reaching out to brush over me. "Shh, _cara_; no bad dreams, _amora mia_," he murmurs, his voice soft and worried, and so, so gentle, like he's done this a thousand times, and is used to quieting me in my sleep. I know sometimes I wake up screaming; I wonder if... or how many times... he has had to do that since I got here. But this is not the problem now, as I am so taken off-guard by the touch, that I jump... and squeak.

Nothing for it - I'm totally outed, now. I giggle, and it is a very naughty giggle, which he echoes, though a note of sheepishness threads his tone. "Ah... did I wake you?"

"I was never asleep," I confess, giggling again. I can't help it. "Why, why are you on the floor, when you could be up here?" I plead, sadly. We cannot keep on like this.

"_Merda_, ah... I apologize, I thought you had fallen asleep," he says, chagrined.

I snort. "Oh, yes, so fair of you, my love, to leave me to writhe in agony for days while you take some kind of relief for yourself as I sleep, hm?" I tease him gently, reaching back for his hand.

"Ah... it was not my intention to leave you in such a state," he avers. He clears his throat a little bit. "I simply did not wish to trouble you. I thought it possible that if you knew, you would... be in further dire straits, or take it as pressure. I did not wish to presume upon you."

"Hmm... You tell me, which is worse: desire with no touching, or desire that is shared?" I twine my fingers between his, making it quite clear what my position is.

He thinks that over for a breath. "I hope it is shared. I did not want to incite you to ardor, not because I do not want you, but because our options are... limited... and, yet again, you show me how foolish of a man I can be, at times."

"Limited options are better than no options," I point out reasonably, squeezing his hand. "You are the one who knows the rules. Show me what is left to us... And trust me to bear the heat with you... _Please_..." I am practically begging, I know it, and I can't seem to stop myself. Knowing that this has been here all this time, within my reach and kept from it, I am going to just catch fire and burn if he doesn't get into this bed with me.

The warmth of his hand leaves mine and I hear him rustling. The room is bathed in light as he puts flame to the lantern. "The stories do not cover this situation. Perhaps it does not make for a nice embellishment on the tale? No matter, but... it seems to be the common thread that intercourse results in... unwanted consequences."

I stare up at him, surprised. "That's it? That's the only thing we can't do?" Of all the people in any world, I would've thought that this stricture wouldn't stop him from the million other things that are possible.

"You say that like it leaves us much room to wiggle." He snorts and sits on the edge of the bunk, sliding until he can lay beside me anyway. Oh, thank the gods. I roll toward him and wrap my arm around his waist, tucking my head into the crook of his shoulder. "My wish is for us to be together as man and woman - joined. I thought it would be more of a tease to test the... parameters of the geas. It had not seemed to be bothering you, so I felt perhaps, it was best to not bring it up."

I groan. "I am too good of an actress," I confess, shaking my head.

"Either that or I am too distracted by your assets," he retorts, giving me one of those little half-smirks. "Which is quite a distinct possibility. My mind is constantly full of wondering how your much fuller bosom would feel with my head upon it, as well as other ideas that serve only to drive me mad..."

"How we are, either of us, functioning at all is beyond me. I can hardly see for the same problem."

He chuckles. "Oh? You were wondering what your bosom would feel like?"

I laugh, waving a careless hand. "Ah, that's nothing. I get a double handful of it every time I change my shirt. But... but," I stutter, "Do you realize _you_ were wearing nothing but a pair of _pants_ earlier? You were all naked chest and long arms, climbing around... and you keep running around like that! It's enough to make a girl a little... crazy... you know?"

"Careful _cara_, I might start believing you hold some unquenched desire for me," he purrs in my ear as he runs his palm over my hip. Before I can say anything to that, his nose is buried in my neck, inhaling deeply. "Tch. I have been _mindless_ with your scent filling my nose; this room positively reeks of you. Truly, I thought it was merely my imagination, something Fate uses to drive me to madness and torment me."

"And I? When I can smell you on the sheets, I can kiss you, lean against you, and yet never touch? Should I be any more sane than you, at this point?" I prop myself up on my arm, looking down at him, my other hand splayed across his chest. "Just, when you say 'unquenched', you have to understand..." I sigh, shaking my head. "Here is a true thing: when you kissed me, that first day, when I could finally stand up again, it was the first, for me."

His eyebrows raise, and he gives me a very odd look. "The _first_ time? But we have had many... encounters..." His words trail off as his expression slowly changes with dawning comprehension and then he pops himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand. "Tch! Auck, I am so stupid! The poison making, the fighting, all of it - gone!" He snaps his fingers in demonstration. "Experiences! Why would that _also_ not be gone? Faugh, I've not the brains the Maker gave a fish!"

The way he says it, 'feesh', makes me giggle, but I shake my head. "I thought you knew, thought surely you could tell. _Everything_ is new."

To that he snorts. "It had been a long time for me; all I could think on was the feel of you. You think that I would notice such a detail beyond your desire for me? Faugh, it is not I who was in your arms not breathing. All I could see was you _in_ my arms, and _breathing_ this time. Fiendish woman, I cannot know all and see all. If I could, I would have finally seen Morrigan and Wynne without their clothes on - and probably wished I had not."

The reminder of how I failed so miserably that I'm even here in the first place strikes me hard, but I bite my tongue on it. I will have to get used to this fact, because it will be remarked upon many, many more times to come. I cannot change it, but I can do better, I have to do better. I try to laugh for him anyway, though, for the idea of Morrigan's bony ass and Wynne's wrinkly one giving him a very brain-scarring eyeful is a little comical, I have to admit. "I know, I know, and I don't expect you to read my mind. You... You're just... so perceptive; perhaps you simply make it look easy, but it's always seemed to me that my emotions have never been a mystery to you. I've become more surprised by the things you _don't_ know than the things you do." I dip my head, my hair falling across my face again, and am reminded of something I once read in Khalil Gibran's The Prophet.

How to explain, though, when that man doesn't exist, here, and neither does Christianity. The Chantry is a fair analogue, but it's not the same, not by a long shot. Keep it simple, right? "There was a very wise man, at whose knee I learned a thousand truths. Much of what I do takes into account the things he said. He spoke on many subjects, and I wish I could say I remember more, but there is one warning he gave that has stuck with me. He once said, 'Reason, ruling alone, is a force confining, and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction.' I believe that we will be stronger for each of us bearing the burden of this unnatural denial together, than we are currently, struggling along, each of us alone in it. I have been alone so long."

The feel of him invades my mind as he pulls me even closer. "No more, _amora_, are we alone. I shall not allow it." His nostrils flare and I realize which hand, unthinkingly, I have used to tuck my hair aside; passing above his face, is my dominant one. This thought crosses my mind at the exact instant he seizes my wrist and presses my palm to his lips, my fingers curling across his cheek. He closes his eyes, taking a long breath, then turns his head, brows furrowed in concentration. I lose a breath, this tiny little whimper escaping my throat as I feel the wet-rough surface of his tongue slowly drag along my skin. Oh gods, he's _licking_ my _fingers_. He hums, a frustrated rumble of pent-up desire, and I wholeheartedly agree. "This is a dangerous game, _cara_," he murmurs, my fingertips pressed to his lower lip.

It takes me a moment to get my tongue unstuck from the roof of my mouth, particularly when he opens his eyes and freezes me in place. "It always has been, _emma sa'lath_ (1)," I breathe, calling him by the name I used so often in my writing, but never dared to utter aloud. Oh gods, give me strength.

_Once upon a time, two rogues walked a tightrope at sea..._

Lips and hands converge on me, swamping my senses, and I reel. My mind is a tangled haze of limbs and absolutely no words as the bunk creaks loudly with the sudden shifting of our bodies, and I find him hovering over me, hips tucked between my legs, his mouth everywhere. I swim in sensation, unable to do much more than gasp, struggling to just remember how to _breathe_, as my thighs tighten around his waist. This is beyond my every inadequate imagining, the weight and sway of him, how I am _surrounded_ by him on all sides. I forget that there is cloth between us and my hands slide up under his shirt to roam his back, liquid muscle and ridged scar sliding under my hungry palms as I map everything I can reach, every detail standing out in stark relief and searing itself indelibly into my mind.

A barely coherent part of my mind quietly notes the fact that with anyone else, this would be a scene straight out of a high school movie, complete with fumbling and flailing elbows. His hand goes down to the hard length of his cock so that the underside of it lines up correctly against my sex, and then his hips sway forward, bowing my back as he grinds against me. I forget myself, where we are, the clothes in the way, and everything except the heat and breath and skin of the man in my arms as my head lolls back and I let out a sharp cry. He yanks his shirt off over his head impatiently and I lock my legs around his hips, my hands wandering over his stomach as a hungry whine struggles to free itself from my throat.

My eyes widen, taking in the ragged shape of the rounded scar on his shoulder, one that I _know_; he jumped in front of me at the last moment, taking a ballista bolt at Caridin's Cross, and went down like a puppet with its strings cut. I remember it - not from my writing, but from the game - because I was so shocked when it happened; I thought it had to have been some kind of glitch, because I had him set to guard Wynne, and she was still surrounded. On the online boards, people have said that he does this sometimes, will randomly abandon his tactics to defend the Warden. My being here, this madness _proves_ it was no _glitch_. I saw purposeful, conscious movement, and didn't even know it. _Phasmatis ex machina._ (2)

This _man_, this living, breathing _man_, bears the _scar_ of something that happened in what I thought was a _game_. Terror and desire wash over me in equal measure as I pull him down, so grateful that when I sank into the game, I began to treat the characters like people. I couldn't bear it if he were covered in scars on my behalf. I brush my lips across the mark, my hands tangling in his hair as he bears down on me, his mouth devouring the line of my neck. I can feel his stomach flex against mine and the hard press of his chest on my breasts, and it drags a moan from me.

His fist winds in my hair tightly, yanking my head back farther, and I feel his lips moving; hot breath washes across my skin as he speaks. "_Cara_ you are so soft." This is punctuated by a hard nip over my jugular, his voice low, urgent and hoarse, "You taste so good, _mia bella ragazza... Mi sei mancato molto..._" Him, me... very... I don't know. He's forgotten to speak English again, and I shudder, knowing what that means, and struggling to bare my neck to him further.

He's got me crushed so tightly against the hard line of his body, I can't do much more than whimper, bucking weakly and desperately gasping his name, my voice breaking. "Zev-ran...!" My hands scrabble over the swell and flex of his shoulders, searching for purchase as I cling, pressing my face into the hot skin of his neck.

His hand sinks between us once more, spreading my lips, and then his fingertips find that sweetest of places, caressing me so perfectly in agonizing, beautiful circles, that I begin to make this little, rhythmic, high-pitched cry. He moans hungrily, a soft growl in my ear, as my hips struggle to meet his hand, to press against the thick length that is poised at my entrance, yet trapped behind the confining cloth of too much clothing in the way, even if he is peeking out of the waistband of his pants, just a little. The weight of him moving above me, the press and slide of him, his scent and his hands, his mouth and skin and the sound of his voice, all combine to one blindingly brilliant mote of ecstasy. He covers my mouth with his own, swallowing my broken wail as I utterly shatter for him.

He groans quietly, an equally broken and ravenous sound, as I writhe under him, gasping for air. The breath is crushed from me as he wraps both arms around me, shuddering, his hips pressing tightly to mine as he follows right after with a strangled moan that is abruptly cut off by a sigh, as he spills across my stomach in a hot burst. Gods... he... if he's... No. No question: this _is_ my Zev, and so I know - aside from talking, he's... not noisy. At all. Oh... I am a pile of cinders. "_Amora mia_, how you drive a man..." He pulls his tunic up off the floor, dragging it across my belly before throwing it aside again.

Something strange happens to me then, as I float in the hazy aftershocks. I am tipping my head to the side, my lips brushing against the edge of his ear, and instead of what I mean to say, I say this: "_Uth ma'ir ar isala, emma Zevran._" (3)

A shiver runs the length of him, and he doesn't speak, but his mouth desperately seeks out mine. He rolls to his back, the circle of his arms carrying me with him, and I tuck my head into the crook of his shoulder. I can see his pulse thudding in the large vein of his neck, and I lay a soft kiss against it, hoping to soothe him just as his large hands soothe me, rubbing my back in long, languid strokes.

After a time, I am drifting to the swaying of the ship, and how his chest raises me up and down with his breathing, when he finally mumbles, "Ah, if only I could snap my fingers and have the light go out. Alas, I do not have such a power, so as much as I wish to continue holding you _cara mia_ I must get up, or risk the ship to fire."

"Mmmh..." I mumble, complaining, but I am already pulling back, flopping against the pillow and stretching like a cat. My side goes cold for a moment, then the light is gone, and there is the slide of skin against my arm once more. Somewhere between the lamp and the bed, he lost his pants. I roll toward him again, clinging, and bury my face in his shoulder, trying not to be too aware of all the length of skin pressed so close to mine. "Please... Tell me you're done sleeping on the floor..."

The rough pad of a thumb moves over my cheek. "So long as it is not too tempting, that it causes us to risk forgetting ourselves and the dangers, then yes. If it is your wish."

I didn't even realize how tense I had been until just now, when I'm suddenly relaxing everything, and I breathe a sigh of relief. My hand wanders across his shoulder, travelling up his neck until I can trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips. "If we get too careless, we can always go back to it, but until then..." I press closer, my thigh sliding over his as I tuck my foot between his ankles. "...I sleep so much better with your arms around me," I admit, only able to say this because of the pitch dark. I am so much more daring in the dark, where there are no eyes to be pinned by.

"Your wish," he murmurs, by way of giving his assent, and winds his arms around me once more, pinning me tightly to his side.

Ohhh... if it's just that easy, I need to be very, very careful what I wish for, from now on.

1. my one love  
2. Latin: Ghost from the machine  
3. I've always needed you, my Zevran


	5. Willpower

Resolve. Oh... resolve. We have been... pushing it. Testing it. Losing it. We have been so sorely tempted. The scent and the press of skin, the softness of lips and fingers tangled in hair, the measure of shoulders and the length of legs, all of it has been enough to drive us both mad with desperation.

We have had some... close calls.

In the moment, it is so easy to forget, to deny what feels so right, and oh, how it aches that we have had to put so much distance between us just in order to remain within the parameters of the... Zev says 'geas'. I say 'curse'. Laying here in the bed, listening to him breathing - _on the floor again_ - it is a _curse_. There are times when I wake up on the floor with him. These are moments when he is not amused; I swear I don't do it on purpose - I wouldn't! - but I don't know if he believes me. I can't help it - I'm reaching for him in my sleep - but he always wakes me up as soon as I am curled up with him, and urges me back to the bed with admonishments that my body is no longer suited to such 'uncomfortable lodgings', along with warnings that if he let me stay beside him, I wouldn't be able to do our daily training.

Our daily training is no easy thing - not that I ever thought it would be - and my back is constantly screaming with it. I am having a hell of a time trying to hide it. I miss Vicodin desperately. He piles onto me the heaviest armor I can move around in, gives me the heaviest weapons I can swing for any period of time, and that's not even the hardest part, in some ways. No, it's the crash-course in language that he drills into me. Outside of our cabin, I can only speak Antivan, but it is getting to the point where I can at least understand ten times more than I can speak. That's something, right? And it's only fair, since I made him learn Elvish. I'm just grateful that I learned Spanish and was looking into Italian, because between the two, I'm picking it up faster than I might've otherwise, and sometimes I can kinda fake it. Zevran says it is something that could save both our skins, me knowing Antivan, and keeping it as secret as possible. It means that others will think I don't know what's going on around me, when, in fact, I will have more warning.

There is one, very real, thing that I have to hold on to, one shining beacon in the darkness: any minute now, we're supposed to sight land. Should have been today, the captain said, but with the storm, we were blown a little off-course. Tomorrow, they say. _Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace, from day to day... _Ah, and here I am, in a world without Shakespeare. No more _Much Ado About Nothing_, alas, and no _Midsummer Night's Dream_, but, on the plus side, no more _Romeo and Juliet_, either. At least I'll sometimes sound clever when I randomly quote The Bard.

My head veritably rings with hundreds of pieces of advice, new words, move and weave and dodge, and my body is so exhausted, all the time. I must have lost fifteen pounds by now, at least. Yet, despite my exhaustion and pain, as soon as I step into our little, farrrrr too tiny cabin, every part of me cries out for something else, for the touch of callused hands and the weight of Zevran above me. I can't have it. We can barely stand to kiss each other anymore; I have to tuck my hands into my armpits just to have a chance.

Landfall. I just have to hang on to the idea of land.

I can feel him moving around behind me, as I lean over the desk, taking the weight off my spine for a moment, and try to think of something, anything other than... that. _Him_. Oh... resolve. I no longer have it as I feel his heat against my back, just a moment before his fingertips brush my elbows, tracing featherlight trails up my arms and across my shoulders.

"I need you." His voice is strained with pent up-need. "In any way I can have you."

I shiver, echoing that need, and whimper as my shoulders hunch against the onslaught of my desire for him. I cannot trust my mouth to obey; there are no words I want to say that are allowed. We both know that this cannot happen, that there is no relief from it, and my nails scratch against the wood as I try to steel myself once more. Anything involving the inserting of one body part into another is completely forbidden, because we cannot be sure where the line is. See, if I had understood that the first night, when Zev said 'no intercourse', I might not have been so flip about it. When he says no sex, he means nothing. _Nothing_. Nothing, nothing, tra-la-la. I feel like I'm gonna _die_. We staunchly refuse to consider the ramifications of kissing, however. Everything else is madness enough.

He spins me around, his mouth colliding with mine, and all the fight goes out of me at once; I cannot help but sag into his grip, my hands - my traitorous hands - rising to frame his face. I barely notice that he is backing me up until the table hits my thighs, and then I realize that air is touching my skin, that he's shoved down my borrowed breeches. Oh gods. I _need_ him, but we can't, we can't; I can't leave him again.

"We can't, we can't," I whimper, echoing myself, even though my hands are hungrily devouring the skin beneath his shirt, tugging it away from him and over his head to give me access to more.

"We won't," Zev says, firmly, as he lifts me up onto the table, and I hear the chair legs scrape across the floor. Unceremoniously, my knees are shoved apart as he sits down, and he orders me, "Show me. Touch yourself; show me everything."

A strangled whimper breaks from me, and I know I have to, I have to, if it can keep him sane long enough for us to get there, just... even if it drives me mad in the process. I cannot deny him anything, but particularly not this, not when he is looking at me with such unfettered agony. I know why, too: landfall. He fears it, more than I do. I have the benefit of knowing I stood upon the shore, once, but he was practically weaned on stories of disastrous castaways. In my saner moments, I can admit that perhaps these castaways are people such as myself, and that with a magical world, when belief reaches a critical mass, it tips the scales of reality.

I can't think too hard on it, though; I have to cling to my concrete, science-driven world-view, at least in this. I've been ashore. I'm fine. I'll be fine. We'll be okay. ...It's... it's fine.

Zev is not so certain, and it shows in the grip he has upon my thighs, just above the knee. This is... _not_ something I do. I have never done anything like this, at all, ever, for anyone, at any time. Not even close. I am shy, and I turn my head, closing my eyes as I pull the tunic up and then... hesitating... off. I throw it toward the bed, but can't spare a thought for whether it actually makes it there.

This is the first time I've taken off my shirt in front of him in over a week. Last time, there was so much skin, we _forgot_, only remembering at the last possible instant, both of us practically screaming with frustration as we had to forcibly tear ourselves away. I felt it, just the barest touch, a brush against the hottest part of me, the ache that is never satisfied, and as I cried out with sudden remembrance - and the stark terror that followed hot on its heels - he threw himself off the bed, so hard that he rolled across the floor.

He was on his feet in an instant, as I curled into a little, shuddering ball of agonized need. "_Cara_, you must dress and leave this room. Now." He had actually _growled_ at me. I could see the tension in him, the way his fists clenched against the wood, and I hadn't dared to argue; I just scrambled into my clothes and ran. Zev was nearly frantic when he found me, over an hour later, as he'd been searching the entire ship for me. I had curled up and cried, as tiny as I could make myself, behind a coil of rope at the prow of the ship, face turned to the sea, trying to let the cold air calm the scalding fires within.

Nothing has ever helped with that, though, and now we are pushing it again. My hair falls across my breast as I hesitate, trying to find a place to begin, something that will quell the fluttering of what amounts to terrible stage-fright. I splay my hands across my stomach, my eyes closed, and let my fingers sink lower, trying to imagine myself from his view, what I must feel like to his hands. In this moment, _I_ have to be his hands. We cannot trust ourselves to anything more.

"_Cara."_ His voice is strained, his hands flexing on my legs, the tips of his fingers denting my muscles, and my eyes open, unbidden, to see him staring at me, unblinking, every single ridge of muscle in his upper body standing harsh under his skin. "_Solo per me,"_ Zev whispers harshly, his tongue running along his bottom lip.

I bite my own, locked into his gaze now, not able to tear my eyes away, mesmerized by his scorching intensity as my hand sinks ever lower. No kidding, 'only for him'; this could never have happened with anyone else. With uncertain and uncommon boldness on my part, I press my fingers to my lips, pulling them apart so that he can see me completely, as I lean back, presenting him with an unblocked view. Hot as I have been, the air is unbearably cold, and I can feel the goosebumps rising on my inner thighs. The air crackles with the unresolved and desperate desire between us.

Slowly, with my free hand, I drag a fingertip along the edge of a lip, smearing wetness over it and watching his expression. His single-minded intensity emboldens me further, and I let it sink into my folds.

His hands slip up my thighs, scooting the chair closer, until his thumbs can hold me open, as he licks his lips once more. My breath hitches, knowing how close to the edge both of us are, and I pause, but as he makes no further move for a moment, I go ahead and push my finger in deeply, burying it up to the base with a little, breathy gasp. I can feel myself blushing hotly as the look of concentration on his face borders on pain, but I focus on the thought of what he would do to me if he could. I imagine that the finger inside me is longer, thicker, with callus on its pad, a different texture than my own carpenter's hands, to rub against my inner walls.

Zevran leans forward, closer, nipping at my wrist, eyes still locked on my finger, and I can feel his breath on me. It takes a monumental effort of will not to buck forward; I have to hold myself very still just to maintain my footing on the razor's edge. My free hand wanders into his hair as the rough slide of his tongue over my knuckles and between my fingers tickles for a moment before he pulls away again, but only far enough so that he can flick the wet muscle over the pulsing button of my clit several times. My cry is sharp, and I am seized by warring desires to simply give in and let go, and to jerk away and stop, as we have had to do so, so many times. I am frozen, caught on the point of indecision long enough that my body makes the call for me, my hips angling forward toward him.

Lips wrap around that aching point, suckling gently, a low growl vibrating over my pearl. I gasp half in warning half in bliss, yet he pulls away, licking his lips thoroughly, and if it was remotely possible, his expression intensifies. I am reminded of a starving predator watching and waiting for the time to pounce. It is intimidating, and unbearably sexy.

"More," he demands, directing me. "Another finger; open yourself to me _amora mia_, show me how much you like it. Let me see into you."

Oh. _Gods_. I'm toast. No one has ever spoken to me this way in my _life_. It hits me like a ton of bricks, and I let loose a shuddering gasp. Shaking, I lean back even farther, putting my free hand behind me to keep from falling backward off the desk, and close my eyes, trying to shut out the fact that I'm being stared at while I do something I've only ever done by myself, in the dark, and even then with echoes of religion-induced shame on its heels. This isn't just uncharted territory, this is straight off the edge of the map.

His fingers brush my wrist, pushing it aside just enough so that there is no risk of it blocking his view, before returning to holding my petals apart. I bite my lip and try to relax, afraid to look, afraid to know just how close we are to losing it completely, and simply focus on what it is I normally do, my fingers travelling long, slow circles from where I need him to be, up to my clit, and back again. Once more I feel him shift, leaning into me again, on one of my journeys to my pearl, licking and lapping over it, apparently unable to resist another taste. I freeze, whimpering, the action catching me both off-guard and on fire.

"Do not stop." Zev's voice is harsh with the force of his restraint as he practically commands me. "Not for anything. If you stop..." I can tell how it costs, how the warning is dragged from him. "...I will be too tempted to replace your touch with mine. Do not stop." And that, _that_ is practically a plea.

This pulls a tortured sob from me as I try to comply without leaping on him like a madwoman and ripping his breeches off, and I only avoid it by a very, very narrow margin. Anything, anything to get us to land. My breathing becomes ragged and picks up speed when he presses his cheek to my thigh, resting his head on my leg, and I can feel him inhaling the smell of me in deep drags, like I'm some kind of drug for him. "Oh, gods, Zev," I whimper, a warning, a plea, an admission of the torture.

That seems to break him, and whatever shreds of resolve he has been clinging to, for his lips are on me again, leaving my fingers buried while he sucks and licks everywhere but at my opening. His hands shift, one to my hip, the other up my body to my breasts, where he squeezes firmly, pinching a nipple and then molding the weight of it to his palm.

Oh, _gods_. We haven't been anywhere close to this in so long, it is breaking me. I buck helplessly against his mouth, sobbing as his touch sends me straight through the roof. My eyes are watering from the strength of my climax and I open them in time to see him leaning back, shifting to pull free of his pants, fist wrapped tightly around himself. One hand remains on me, holding me wide open, even tracing down to my tiny inner petals and parting those, too. Zevran's hand strokes rapidly up and down his shaft, focusing mainly on his crown, the foreskin slipping over it and back, his chest heaving as the muscles of his forearm flex with each motion. I suddenly understand what was driving him, as my mouth goes dry, my eyes fixed on the movements of his hand, and I want nothing more, in this instant, since I cannot have what I want, to just... to just _taste_, oh gods, please, but his firm hand on me keeps me pressed to the table, and all I can do is whimper with the force of my need.

His stare remains unwavering, even as a soft grunt heralds his release. I bite my lip, hands locking on the edges of the table, reminding myself - but only just - to not jump forward. No matter that his semen is so thick, and there is so much of it that it oozes from between his fingers as he does not stop. A shiver rocks through me when I realize that he is so hard, his normally rosy cock is almost purple, and that strands of his semen are pulsing through the spasming hole in his tip. With a last gasp Zevran leans forward, laying his cheek over my sex, relinquishing the grip on his manhood, and his sticky hand comes to rest on my thigh.

Without thinking about it - all I know is that I have to _taste_ him, _now_ - I seize his wrist, just as he did to me that night, weeks ago, and lick at the sour-salt tang of his release, something that has been utterly forbidden from me. From his palm to his fingers, I suck them clean, because it is all I can have, until there is nothing left, while he pants and moans against me. Something else I have never done, would never even have _considered_. Oh, how this desperation drives me.

A harsh groan escapes him and I watch him struggle to stand, tucking himself back into his breeches; I pull myself together, huddling with a knee to my chest. "As soon as they spy land, and we are close enough to take a rowboat, we make for it," he says, his voice rough, hands flexing at his sides.

I shudder. "Agreed!" My voice is more than a little breathless. I take the tunic from his hand as he offers it to me and tug it back on, wrapping my arms around my waist again. "Just... One thing. Promise me something."

"Anything _amora mia_." Zev gently enfolds me in his arms, kissing my forehead, and I sag against him, still so hungry.

"Be- Before we... test... it..." I take a deep breath. "Carry me away from the eyes of everyone else. Whatever happens, it is not... it is not for them. Please..."

Zevran's broad hand cups the back of my head, tipping it back so he can look deep into my eyes. "Your wish, Lily, is my desire, and I give you my word, as your man, without reservation, that I shall see it done."

How these simple words take my breath away. I'm forced to admit it now: I am terrified as hell. I want to thank him, but I hope he can just read it in my face, because I can't force any words out through the tightness in my throat. I finally let go of myself instead, clinging to his waist and burying my face in his shoulder. I don't want to ever let go, or him to let go. Not ever. Not in a million years. He turns with me, and we fall into the bunk together, curling around each other, limbs so tangled it's hard to tell where one of us ends and the other begins.


	6. Geas

Land. We made it - just barely, but we made it... I hope. They sighted it late this morning, and now we're in a little row-boat. Two sailors man the oars, and Zevran is holding me between his legs, my back pressed to his chest, his arms around my waist. Today we didn't do any sparring. Instead, we laid in bed with him wrapped tightly around me, refusing to move an inch, except for physical necessities. I'm glad of it, because I don't think I could have taken anything else. There are dark circles under his eyes that would tell me he didn't sleep last night, even if I hadn't been awake half the night, myself. I'm terrified; I really am.

I'm terrified because _he's_ terrified. It's in every single touch, no matter how well he masks it. He can't hide it, not when up until now he'd been able to act 'normal' around me, not when he refuses to leave off touching me, even for a moment. Ponka knows something is up, and he lays at our feet, whining occasionally and licking our entwined hands.

The sailors reach the shallows and jump out of the boat, towing it toward the shore, and I watch with wide-eyed trepidation as the beach grows ever closer. I've never been more afraid of a simple stretch of sand in my life. Zev hops out as the boat beaches itself, landing waist-deep in the water, and holds his hands out for me. Looking over my shoulder, I meet my mabari's eyes. "Ponka, stay with the sailors or near the boat, please." His ears droop, and he whines, but I shake my head, and he bows his. "Thank you, my good friend," I say, reaching out to scratch his head, one last time. I climb out, letting my assassin wrap his arms around my waist and under my knees, and I cling to his shoulders, pressing my face to his neck. Here it comes.

I haven't been carried like this since I was a child, and oh, he walks forever, and he's not even winded. He just... heats up.

Zevran walks a fair distance down the beach, a long way by my estimation, until the curving of the land hides us from the view of the ship, the little long-boat with my worried beast in it, and the sailors currently searching for water and other necessities. Our lonely swath of island stands empty; I never thought a beach could look foreboding, particularly not in the soft sunlight, warm like April. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lets his arm slip from under my legs, and I let my toes rest on the tops of his boots. I had thought to wear my boots, but in the end, we agreed, just to be safe, that I should be barefoot. No room for mistakes, then.

"I have you _cara_," he murmurs soothingly, having noted my trembling, and he holds me to him with one arm, his free hand stroking my hair for a moment before he kisses me. It is sweet and deep, a long exploration, and I get lost in it. Zev sighs against my mouth, his arm about my waist tightening, the kiss taking on a desperate note before easing up. With obvious reluctance he pulls away, his eyes not opened yet. "Lily, _dolcezza_... I..." He sucks in a deep breath, his brows furrowing in pain. "...I love you, and only you."

I thought I would never, ever hear these words come out of his mouth, and I know, I know the shock is all over my face, not that he would be able to see it at the moment, what with his eyes still clenched shut. He didn't even say this the last time we had a chance to speak, before the assault on Denerim, but I can see the anguish, the flexing of the muscles around his mouth, the wrinkle in his forehead: regret. He is saying it because he's afraid this is the last time he may have the chance.

Breathlessly, I surge forward, kissing him fiercely, my toes curling into the coarse... texture...

I've been standing on the ground for over a minute; I was so lost in him, I didn't even notice when my toes slipped from his boots. I break the kiss with a sudden laugh. This startles him and I love how the confused expression on his face morphs quickly into amazement and joy. I start to back up but feel something poking me. Turning partially in his arms, I realize that he's been holding what I think is the Rose's Thorn at my back, angled so that it would plunge through us both.

"Oh, Zev..." I whisper, touching his cheek gently, knowing what he was about. It would have been the only mercy he could have shown either of us, I think.

He is unapologetic as he puts the dagger away, and I step back a little to give him some room. I see a glimpse of the cold pragmatist in him that makes me shiver, immediately confirming my guess. "I would not let either of us suffer. Not again."

"No, I... I know." I want to reassure him, that I find no fault in this, that I understand, no matter how it raises my hair.

What matters most is that if I had to choose where I died and who did the deed, it would be in the arms and at the hands of my Zevran, because I know he would make it as quick and as near to painless as it could be, and I simply cannot think of any better place to be. The only problem is that I know how much it would kill him to do such a thing... Which is why, I suppose, he was using that long dagger: one that in-game was known as the best for backstabbing, one that was fast, and powerful, one that could punch through me and into him, with the correct twist between ribs. It is also the very same one that I passed up in favour of buying him the Felon's Coat. We didn't have the sovereigns for both, and I felt that protecting him was more important than me picking up another dagger; not when I had my Thorn of the Dead Gods. He must have got it after-

"_Cara_." His voice snaps me back to the here and now, and I stumble a little at the force of his expression. That's me, yep. I can fall over standing still. "Your feet are upon ground."

At first, I'm not quite cognizant of all the implications of this statement, still reeling from his words and the press of the knife, but then a slow smile spreads over my face. "So they are," I reply.

"And what do you think we should do with this... development?" he asks, his voice dropping low as he suddenly steps forward, invading my space, putting us just a breath apart. He's only got two inches on me, but in this moment, he seems to tower, the intensity rolling off him in waves. All the trappings of courtesy and civility fall from him to reveal the starving animal beneath, despite how carefully enunciated his words are.

Oh, I can't breathe. Unthinking, once again, my brain set to nothing but static and white noise, more Elvish falls out of my mouth. "_Ar isala na'dar in'ar; sahlin,_ (1)" I whisper urgently, closing the distance and pressing firmly against his chest.

With a snarl he is on me, hands jerking my clothes away almost violently as his mouth collides with mine. If he were absolutely anyone else, I would be terrified, but my hands shake with the force of my long-denied need for him, and I am no more gentle than he is. Our clothes are discarded in a flurry; I only manage to get his pants partially off before he shoves me down to the ground to yank my legs up and open as my fingers scrabble at his wrists. All I can do is arch as he invades my body like a conquering force, slamming all the way in, giving me no time to adjust to the shocking size of him. I want to scream, I do, but I can't. I can't breathe.

_Oh gods,_ is all I have time to think before he slides back quickly, only to spear me again on the thickness and length of him. My hands flex instinctively, gripping his arms so tightly that my nails dig little crescents into his skin. He is so big, and I am so unused to having someone within me at this point that it is not going to take long for _anything_. I lock my legs around his hips, bucking upward against him, though the stretch borders on the painful, because I cannot gather the breath to urge him on with my voice; we have both been so _hungry_, for so many reasons. I finally suck in a shuddering lungful of air, and it is his name that is torn from my mouth in a full-throated wail - the only word that is anywhere near coherent in my mind.

My Zev sets a brutally fast pace, hips snapping hard against mine, his arms curling under my shoulders, fingers tangling in my hair as he arches over me, and I struggle to meet him. My nails score his back as I claw like a cat, trying to pull him in closer, feeling like I am being dragged down and pounded by unforgiving waves. Together we crash, breaking over each other, fighting to mingle like the stormy seasides we both come from. He hisses in my ear, tongue tracing the shell of cartilage and changing direction to lick the line of my jaw, biting at my chin, then my lips.

_Oh gods, he's gonna eat me alive,_ I think, and I know I am one roasted, toasted, salted, and sanded little fishie.

His voice is a harsh groan in my ear as he demands even more from me. "Say it, _amora_, say it!"

I don't _know_ what he wants me to say, I don't have any clue, and my mind isn't exactly clear beyond the sound of him, the feel of him. I buck and moan beneath him, grinding my hips against his; my sheath is stretched to just beyond capacity, and I claw at his shoulders and back, my legs locked around the backs of his thighs. I would say anything, _anything_, but I don't know what he wants. I am frantic and confused, but I have to - more than anything I've ever wanted or needed _in my life_ - say whatever it is that he wants to hear.

"Zev!" A gasping whine, my voice breaking on his name, is all I can manage as I fight to get ever closer to him, to give him everything I am.

He hisses and growls, an animalistic sound of possessiveness that hits me like a wave of fire. His name from my lips spurs him to impossibly greater speed, and his mouth covers mine, tongue stabbing within, mimicking the motion of our lower bodies.

The air is filled with the wet smacking of our flesh, my barely muffled cries, and his panting growls, until he arches, mouth ripping away from mine as his head is thrown back, slamming into me to the hilt, dragging another cry from me as he begins to pulse deep within me. I roll my hips upward, desperately trying to keep the rhythm as he falters, watching his face transform with the ecstasy and oh, oh gods, he is so beautiful. I can feel him filling me, the twitching of his cock clamped hard by my internal muscles; the aching rub against the mouth of my womb and the sheer _heat_ of his seed spilling in me, oh, it would be enough to make me scream, if I yet had the breath to do so. I lurch upwards, wrapping my arms around his chest, bucking and crying into his shoulder with the overwhelming crash and burn that rips through me. The tide originates from my sex and radiates outwards and upwards and downwards, my muscles locking and spasming in a powerful throbbing in time to my heartbeat.

My heart, my soul, oh, something happens to me all in the blink of an eye, something permanent. For just the briefest, terrifying instant, it's like I can feel his heart beating within _me_, a second drum, off-tempo from my own. It's almost as though a bass string is plucked, heavy and low, a thrum that I feel in my bones, a string stretched from him to me, and I feel myself vibrating in time to it, like rain in reverse, falling upward from me to him. As he suddenly looks down at me, the wild look in his eye tells me that he felt it, too.

We collapse in a heap, panting and shaking in the aftershocks, and I pepper his face and neck and everything I can reach with breathless kisses as I cling to him tightly, never, ever wanting to let go. "Oh Zev, oh gods, I love you, I love you so much," I babble, my hands tangling in his hair, his ragged breathing in my ear. "_E'lath bor'el revas_," I whisper. This keeps happening, whenever I'm overwhelmed, this Elvish falling from my lips like a second language, which would be fine except that I'm not doing it on purpose, and this statement is perilously close to my last words on the top of Fort Drakon; the only difference is that instead of saying that _his_ love set _me_ free, I've now said that _our_ love set _us_ free.

_"When she died one day – old, and having lived a long, happy life – he went stiff, dropping to the ground and fading away like a breath upon the wind."_

Oh gods. Something happened. Something that isn't possible, isn't real, isn't... no logic, no science, just magic and fairy tale rules. I cling to him desperately, suddenly aware that he was right, he must have been, and we are very, very lucky that we made it to land today. It may be freedom, but it is also a binding that is very, very tight. I am glad now for all the nights of torture we endured, and that he knew of the tales, that he was able to protect me from something I still half-discounted, even as I knew that... well, I'm not in Kansas anymore, so to speak. Overcoming my natural tendency to approach things with the cold logic of a scientific world is going to be not only difficult, but critical to my... no, now _our_ survival.

He pulls away slowly, with clear reluctance, but we must move. There is sand in some very uncomfortable places, and I feel a little scraped raw. He gathers me to his chest as he sits back, pulling me up with him, and I'm grateful for this, as the trembling in my thighs tells me that I cannot stand, not yet. I cling to his shoulders as gentle hands brush the sand from my back. I hiss, wincing as the roughness abrades my already tender skin, and he pauses, tucking his chin over my shoulder to have a look, and then he, too, hisses. "Lily, _amora mia_, I apologise, I should have-" I lean back quickly and kiss him, cutting him off.

This kiss is different from all the others, as it lacks any note of desperation. It is just a kiss, but it's so much more than that, as well, because it is the first such gesture of affection that doesn't have that quality to it, and I revel in it, sinking deeper, my hands tangling in his hair. I forget where we are, for a time, just grateful for the moment, for the feel of him in my arms, finally relaxed, finally mine. At last I turn my face aside, kissing across his cheek, the corner of his jaw, down his neck as his head tilts to the side. "No apologies, _emma sa'lath_ (2); I was just as hungry as you. I knew what we did, and I didn't care. It was worth such minor discomforts." I nuzzle my face into his neck with a contented hum. "What concerns me more, at this point, is that I need to wash up... but there're two problems. The first is that I'm relatively certain I can't walk, and the second that this entails walking into the sea, and I don't like that plan. Not the least of my objections being that I'll have to let go of you."

Zev shakes his head, holding me closer. "No, I shall not let you go. We will do it together," he says, rising, and carries me once more, straight into the water. His grip loosens a bit when he reaches about waist level, and I unwrap my legs from his hips so that I can let the water wash over me. It stings in a million different places, and I wince again, clinging closer. Being naked in the ocean is not something I would do, as a general rule, but this time it is necessary.

Then again, this is not my ocean. My ocean is hard and grey, a gorgeous deep blue on the sunniest of days, but always, always frigid cold. This water is... not. It's not quite as warm as a pool, but it's close, and it's a quiet, dark teal.

With the weight of my lower body displaced by the sea, it is easier for me to hang on to Zev with just one arm, but before I can even think of seeing to myself, I feel his hand slip between my thighs, and so I just lay my head against his shoulder, letting the ocean swells push me against him. Never again will I see the sea as a peaceful thing, but for now, with him, this is the closest I've ever come to that fleeting feeling, and I cleave to it as surely as I cleave to him. "What if we never went to Antiva?" I ask, a cold desperation gripping me from within.

He stills, his face pressing against my neck as he turns toward me, but I've buried my own against his shoulder. "What?"

It's unbearable. I know we will go, we will get back in that boat, board the ship, and sail for shark-infested waters, jump straight into the lion's mouth, but for just a minute, I want to pretend that we could ever live a quiet life. "What if we just drag everything off the boat and live here, a quiet life on the beach; no Crows, no Blight, no more fighting, no more blood, just us, and fish, and Ponka."

He sighs, holding me closer, and after a moment, reluctantly shakes his head. "We have a saying amongst the Crows: we only leave feet-first. They will find us here, Lily _mia_, it would only be a matter of time," he says, regret clear in his voice, the words that must be spoken. I know. We only have a tiny window of time where they will be shocked to find us taking them by storm, and not have the wherewithal to scramble effectively, if we are very quick, and perfectly cunning. That window will close if we wait too long, never mind that there are crew, passengers, the captain, and any number of people who may have seen Zev get on the ship in Denerim. It would not be hard to find out where it had gone, where it had stopped, and where we had disappeared.

I shake my head too, kissing the side of his neck. "I know, I know it, but, just for a minute, the dream is so sweet." If I could only think of someplace we could run that would be far enough, I'd pay our weights in gold just to get us there. Oh, but this life... We will never be able to lay down our blades. There will never be peace. We will have moments, yes, stolen and perhaps all the sweeter because of it, but there will never be any time when we do not have to be on guard.

I would be content to live on a ship for the rest of my life. I would be happy living on a beach, no running water, no electricity, just a bucket for bathing in. I'd be happy washing clothes and fishing for food, living like a heathen. But... As much as I would be content to leave the comforts of civilization behind, I know that he would never be happy. There would be no beds, no wine, no incense or oranges, no hot baths or street vendors, all the little things that he revels in. I could not pull him away from that, no matter how desperately I would wish for a quiet life. It's not in the cards for us.

Mmh. I wonder if they have tarot here. I kinda wish I'd had my cards in my pocket, too. I wonder if my four little talismans that I wear on the chain around my neck actually have any power here.

The next week is a blur, as Zev makes up for lost time by nailing me to the bed so thoroughly that, really, sparring is the last thing I'm capable of.

Sparring, we've been barefoot, mostly, to give us better traction, so my boots have been sitting under the bed, quietly hiding their all-too-modern selves. They're jump boots, so old I've had them resoled with lugs and laced with parachute cord. Definitely _not_ a Ferelden specialty. I rolled up my jeans, my flannel shirt, my hoodie, my t-shirt, and my bra, and stashed them back there with my coat, as well. Bras are the only thing I'll miss about home, I think. Bodices are so... cramped, and I really hate breast-binding. It hurts when you take it off.

My hair has to go, he says, because waist-length hair is not only a liability, but it just is gods-damned difficult to take care of it properly here. No specialty shampoos. I wonder if I can get my hands on some of the wonder-soap I wrote for Lily Mahariel. I wonder if he has any of it in the hold. I have been wondering what the hell is in my trunks, but I've been afraid to ask. It is while he is cutting my hair, a scant week before we're to reach Antiva, that he begins to ask me about the things I had hoped would simply fade into the ether.

"_Cara_... I... I've a question, if I may," he begins, and I tense. Oh, this is the preamble to some heavy shit. This is what he said when he started that loaded conversation about what I expected of him after the Blight.

"Anything," I say, and I mean it, even though I've got no idea where it's going to go. Of course, my Zev, he has a mind like a steel trap - nothing escapes his notice, even if it takes him a little time to wrap his head around it, or to chew on it long enough to decide what he wants to do.

"You say you are an incarnation, yes? And it is clear to me that you are yourself. You speak the same, you smell the same, your kiss, your touch, and all the little things you do, the way you hide behind your hair and the sound of your voice, your handwriting and your laugh, the size of your hands and the curve of your neck, they are the same. Even Ponka knows you, so I do not question this. But what I do not understand... There are so many other, little things, that are not right. For instance, if you are an incarnation, if all we had before has gone, how is it that you were not a virgin again, as well?"

I've been thinking about zippers and rubber, so this catches me flat-footed, and I'm less than eloquent. "Uh... you noticed."

He snorts. "Of course I _noticed_. Did you think that what I asked of you the night before we made landfall was a whim? I had to know; I did not wish to hurt you."

_Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive_. What the hell do I say, now? Clearly, he thinks me to have simply sprung, fully formed, from the ether of the here-and-now, and would have gone with this idea, if it were not for the fact that many things don't add up to that hypothesis. "Uh... well... it's because I'm not a _direct_ incarnation. I did not... I did not come _from_ her, as we are the same age." He stills, behind me, so I hasten on. "Imagine the branches of a tree. The trunk represents all of life, all of creation. Every branch is a new idea, its own entity. Every decision made, every little thing that changes, creates a new twig, a new branch all its own. All the branches are connected to the single root: the tree of life. Yet, it is possible for the branches on one side of the tree to be entirely different from those on the other side, because the tree is sufficiently big enough for all possibilities, all eventualities to exist at the same time."

There is a pause, and I feel more of my locks slither over my back as he continues cutting. "Then how is it that you know anything of this world, this life... of me?"

I sigh. "Where I come from, we have... a way of sharing dreams. Uh... So there was a group of people who dreamed of Thedas, and shared it with the world. I joined the dream, and I was able to live here, for a time, through the Blight; you were witness to almost all that happened, before the end. However... while there have always been those who believed that the dreams were places unto themselves - other branches - most believe the dreams to be simply tales spun of north wind and rabbit tracks. I too believed this to be the case... until I met you."

He snorts. "How was it I, out of all those you knew, who was the one to convince you otherwise?"

I'm surprised he doesn't know the answer already. Maybe he just needs to hear it. "Because you... You _saw_ me. You saw _me_, not just the body I inhabited - you saw right through that, to the very heart of me. You saw my soul. You knew _me_."

If he weren't cutting my hair, I'd turn around; I don't like these silences where I can't read his face. "This does not happen to others?" he finally asks.

"No. No, never. There is no magic where I come from, not in any real sense of the word, not like here. Mostly, what we have are prayers and charlatans. When we share these dreams, we see through the eyes of another; we are silent observers to the story as it was laid out or experienced by the original dreamers," I say, thinking of movies, but Dragon Age was the first rpg I ever picked up where there were so many ways to go through and change the story. It was the only game I'd ever known that had 'love interests' in it. "The dream of Thedas was unique, in that one could join and become an incarnation. Everything was real, in a way I'd never seen."

"So... you... _possessed_ her? How was she not aware of you?" Oh, I do not like the tone in his voice.

"No! I _am_ her. She is me. We are one and the same - one soul, one heart, one mind... two bodies. There was never any 'me' to be aware of, because I have always been Lily, every moment, and no other. You said it yourself: who I am has not changed. If you took me back to my clan - not that I think that would be a good idea, mind you - they, too, would know me, as I know them."

There is another cursed silence, followed by another hard question. "If you were always yourself, all the time, in two places at once, why did you never tell me of your other life?" He pushes my head forward with a firm hand to my crown, and I tip my chin down, as I feel the flat of the blade press against my nape. All my instincts stand at alert, yet, of course, all I feel is a little bit of a scrape, just like a straight razor, trimming the hair away.

What can I say to that? I didn't want him to know how weak I am? I didn't want to be a disappointment? I didn't want where I was to be the reality, I wanted _this_? I sigh again. "Because I didn't want you to think I was crazy, or possessed. We had a job to do, and there wasn't really time for it. I thought-" There's really no finishing that thought. 'Later' isn't supposed to come, for a video game character. I thought maybe I'd do something, say something in my writing, give us a happy ending... I thought the epilogue was going to be awesome, and tie everything up with a neat little bow.

But there's really no such thing as 'happily ever after', not really, not even in a fairy-tale world. People get old, people argue and bicker, people hurt each other, get sick, die.

He doesn't ask me any more questions. He just brushes the hair away, and as he begins to kiss the back of my neck, I forget that I didn't give him all the answers.

1. I need you to be inside me; now.  
2. My one love 


	7. Squash

The coast of Antiva is rocky and full of treacherous cliffs, but it also has beautiful stretches of beach. Little fishing villages dot the coast, punctuated by larger cities where the houses stack one atop the other in tall tiers all the way to the tops of the hills. I can't see how there are any streets amongst all that crush, but there must be. Everything is painted in bright colours - they seem to favour yellow, sky blue, salmon orangey-pink, and leaf green - even in the small villages, although white tends to predominate in the little communities.

It's been weeks of hard training, and I can feel the strain of it. I hurt in places I didn't know I even had; hopefully it will be enough that I can at least survive. Zev says that the ports will undoubtedly be watched, so we must be careful when we disembark. My face is not known, anywhere, because it has no ink on it, and does not come with a pair of pointed ears. To be recognized as myself, I would have to paint on the design, and I have to admit, I've wondered what I would look like with it on, but that is, of course, not really the kind of attention I want to invite right now. I can't back that face up with action. Not yet anyway. Maybe never.

I try not to think about that too much.

So, we'll use my _shem_ness to our advantage, this time. I can be 'a lady with an elven servant', and no one will look twice at either one of us. I don't like it, but he knows his homeland best, and I wouldn't dare argue. At this point, if he says jump, I'm not even gonna ask 'how high?', I'm just gonna jump. After we've packed everything up from the cabin, Zev gives me this remote look, and disappears into the hold for over an hour. Eventually he comes back with a dress in his hands, and a cloak over his arm. He stands there, staring at it for a moment, and the look on his face when he hands it to me is so... lost.

I recognize this dress. I never wear dresses - well, except when strictly necessary - and as Lily Mahariel, this was never more true, so there was only the one. I wore it once. It was for him, at Redcliffe, after all was said and done, and this only happened in my writing. Eamon and Teagan threw a big party, to celebrate the fact that not a single person perished after we showed up. It's a dark blue, heavy silk, simple, but well-cut, and flattering to my long-waisted torso. It was a cast-off of Isolde's and oh, how she burned with jealousy when she realized that it looked better on me than it ever had on her. That night, Zev and I stayed at the inn, and that was the first time we shared a bed... and the first time I gave myself to him. After that, it stood on a form in our room at Soldier's Peak. That it is here means he specifically went up there to fetch it, and whatever else of mine he's brought. Maybe everything. Oh, my heart.

He laces me in, and it fits me like a glove. It's a little bit tight across the tits, and it gives me just a tiny bit of internal glee that my rack is bigger than Isolde's. I hated that snooty bitch; I was two seconds from sacrificing her when I found out that we could go to the Circle for help, and I only agreed to _that_ because I knew Alistair cared. I've never worn a silk dress before, and it's... strange. I actually like it. I smooth my hands down the front and over my hips. Lacking a mirror, I look up at him, nervously fidgeting. "Do I... Does it look alright?" I don't realize I've subconsciously given him a déjà vu moment by repeating myself, until I see the scrunched up, pained look on his face, and then I bite my lip.

He wraps an arm around my waist and kisses me softly, pulling me to him and running his fingers through my too-short hair. "_Sì, cara mia_, you are beautiful," he murmurs.

We've determined that the best cover for us is going to be if I'm a trade delegate from Arl Teagan. I'm ostensibly here to procure a new trade agreement on specialty fabrics, and Zev has drawn up some very convincing documents to that effect. It seems to me that they'd pass all but a very close inspection.

Zev leaves the ship first in his capacity as servant and body-guard to procure a carriage, while I fret and pace, supposedly doing whatever it is that ladies do. Primping, or some shit. I count slowly to three hundred, and then, taking a deep breath, sweep up the stairs and out onto the deck with my head held high, like I've not a care in the world. I wander over to the railing and look down, just in time to see my Zev coming back up the gangplank. I school my face to remove all familiarity from my bearing and expression. "Well?"

He bows his head and gestures gracefully for me to precede him. "M'lady's carriage awaits," he says, and I nod.

"And the trunks?" I ask, as I begin to pass him, heading towards the gangplank. "Are they all in order?"

"Yes, m'lady," comes the studiously neutral response from behind me, and I already hate myself for this role. It may be vital, it may be correct, but the minute we're alone, I'm gonna make it up to him, anyway. Ponka follows along beside me, happily sniffing at everything within reach as we walk by. A passing nobleman, by the looks of his dress, gives me a sympathetic and interested look, slowing to engage me in conversation, and I turn to see Zev standing a little way off, looking carefully in another direction. He must be known to this man. I call attention away from Zev by smiling at the man and making small-talk, just a little.

"Ah, a Ferelden jewel," he says, giving me a smile that I try to return. "Tell me, fair lady, is this your first trip to Antiva?"

I nod, scanning the port for a clue as to where our carriage might be. "It is. I have always heard how beautiful Antiva City is; I've been looking forward to discovering its many charms for myself."

He is smiling and nodding, a good sign. "Well, then let me be the first to welcome you to our fair country, yes? I trust your journey was not overtaxing."

I make an exasperated noise and put my hand on my hip. "Ugh, I hate sea voyages, particularly when there is so little opportunity for educated conversation." I say, tapping my foot, and the man laughs.

"Indeed, _signora_, quite rare," he says, looking at my man again, dismissively, before taking my hand to kiss it. He gives me a rakish grin that makes my stomach roll, and I paste a pretty smile on my face. "_Signore_ Lothrein, at your service, beautiful lady."

I think of the last time Zev had his hands on me, to make myself blush. "Lady Cassia," I reply, with a tiny little nod of my head. Who knows what this guy's station is, compared with the one I'm supposed to be occupying. I need to get this dude off my back. "Ah, I hate to be impolite," I begin, but he cuts me off with an understanding smile.

"But of course. You have had a long trip, no doubt. Should you require anything during your stay - please, send your man around to enquire at my estate." He kisses my hand again, and moves off, at last. Ugh. Nobility. Nasty. I resist the urge to wipe my hand on my skirt, just in case he's checking out my ass. As soon as the guy's out of earshot, I call out to Zev. "Come Berwick, I am tired and wish to be shut of this stench!"

He is at my side again in an instant, and I feel a lot less shaky. I don't like this little ploy; I'm not cut out for this kind of thing. However, I did take drama in high school and college - three years of it - so it's not like I don't know what I'm doing. I was usually chosen first for all the Shakespeare, because not only could I learn the lines without much trouble, I actually knew what they meant, and could act accordingly, without a whole hell of a lot of direction.

A large cart full of crates moves out of the way, heading off up the road, and I suddenly see the carriage we're meant to take, waiting for us, with two fair-sized trunks stacked on the back of it. So little space for two lives to be packed in. Zev stops by the side of it and opens the door for me, holding out his hand. I take it, and step upward, just as I hear some shouting coming from above and behind me. Zev lets go of my hand as I look over my shoulder, just in time to see - and hear - some ropes give way on one of the winch and pulley systems that is being used to transport a load of cargo off a nearby ship.

This particular net happens to be right behind and above the carriage when the rope breaks, and the platform tips toward us, spilling the contents. I have just enough time to register what is happening, and say "Oh shit," before the entire pile of boxes is falling on us. I try to jump back, but that artificial slow-motion of adrenaline doesn't actually slow down gravity.

Of course. It's always been like I travel in my own bubble of mayhem and disaster. If it can fall over, fall apart, or spill, if I can trip over it, run into it, or have it fall on me, if anything at all can go wrong with it, it'll happen to me or someone near me. Never fails. I'm a jinx.

The first of the boxes land on the front of the cart, undoubtedly flattening the driver, a mere instant before five or six of them land on the top of the carriage... and me. I hear a series of horrible crunching noises, and there is a white-hot flare of pain in my back... _No gods, you can't be this cruel..._ and then...

...A flashing instant of daylight and agonizing lucidity; I see golden eyes, my hand, blood, a cacophony of shouting in my ears. "Zev..."

Nothingness.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"_I'd ask what you're doing here, but I suppose it would make sense for you to come to Antiva... after." I barely pay attention to the Templar who has joined me in my vigil._

Lily is pale, and the mage, Anders, is working on her, putting me to the task of helping him straighten her limbs so that he can heal them. Her beautiful, long limbs, ones that just this morning I had felt wrapped around me, secure and vital. Please, Maker, do not take her from me again. Have I not, has she not... have _we_ not suffered and bled and done enough for You?__

"Hey, hold her down, this might make her seize again." The tall shemlen _healer joins me in disregarding Alistair._

Pressing down on her hips and shoulders, I wait while the pressure in the room increases, like that crackle right before and after lightning strikes. Lily, _amora_, please forgive me. _I clench my eyes shut while I feel energy course through her body; the splints on her legs, arms, and the one along her spine help me hold her straight. This is the fifth time Anders has laid his spells into my woman, and this is the fifth time I have had to hold her immobile while her body convulses, as ruined bones and muscles fight, buck, and resist the process._

As suddenly as it starts, it is over. I am drained; if only I could somehow have Anders pull power _from me to feed into my once-Warden though, I would do it, without hesitation. It is a relief, this brief break, while Anders has to sit down and sip from a vial of lyrium, waiting for his energies to realign so that the spell can be reused._

I sag on the bed, my eyes fixed solely on Lily's wan face. "How much more of this must be done?"

"There's a lot of old damage in her," he says, sounding tired, and I glance towards the mage, who is rubbing the back of his neck, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. "I've never seen someone so mangled. I don't know how she could have been getting up and moving around. Her spine? It's like someone knocked down a wall, let a two-year-old pile the bricks back up, and called it a day. I can't even describe the meat grinder her brain has been through. Someone used her, and pretty badly, at that. I can fix most of it, but right now it's all I can do to put the old stuff right. I healed the worst of the new damage, and that's fine, but I can't just... leave someone that broken, especially with the opportunity that her current state provides. It spares the necessity of re-breaking everything so it can heal properly."

I knew there had been much she had not told me. I knew that sometimes she could not move in ways that should be within a healthy person's abilities. Yet, she never complained once, never breathed a word of it, despite the pain I could see in her face when she thought I was not looking. This, then, is the source of her thrashing nightmares, her agonized whimpers and broken cries in the night, nightmares that are not like those she had before, when she would wake screaming defiance and ready to pull blades. Lily, why keep such secrets from me? _I wonder, giving her cheek a gentle brush of my fingers, the softness marred by the ugly bruises. All she told me was that she came from elsewhere, a place where dreams were shared amongst many, a place that sounds much like the Fade. I knew that was not the entire truth; but she never _told _me, and I am a true coward. I could not press, could not ask._

I did not want to know that she missed that place.

"So, who is she?" Alistair asks, forcing a cup into my hand.

The veiled question he really means to ask me is hard. "Who is she, that she would gain my distress over her injury? This is what you want to know? Open your eyes, man, and look _at her."_

The Templar looks over my shoulder, and I can hear the only half-interested shrug in his voice. "She looks familiar, but we met a lot of people."

Leliana enters, a bundle of fabric in her arms. "Alistair, does she not look like a lost friend?"

"Well... I don't know... Not really. I guess she bears a passing resemblance." Alistair shakes his head, once again denying the proof of his senses.

If I had the energy to spare him, I would shake him by his great, hulking shoulders. Either that, or hug him, for the aid he has given by way of this apostate mage, Anders. And when - not 'if', for I cannot bear to think that she won't recover - she is on her feet once more, his presence means it is possible that I can have help in keeping her safe, but right now, Alistair is more aggravation than I care to handle.

The apostate downs a cup of cider and stands up. "Look, uh, I know I'm just kind of an interloper here, but who is it that she's supposed to be, and why are we fussing about it, when what needs to be done right now is heal her?"

_I do not know if I want to kiss this man or yell at him for his interference. Instead I take Lily's hand. "Lily Mahariel."_

"Whoa, the Hero of Ferelden? I thought she was dead! You know, big announcements and all that," the mage says, sounding confused - almost as confused as I was, when I pulled her from the water. "And I thought she was one of those Dalish types: tattoos, pointy ears, short. She sort of... isn't any _of those things."_

"Zev, I know things must be hard for you." The boy-knight presses his palm to my shoulder, and I only do not shrug him off by a sincere effort of will. His voice is quiet and serious, full of sympathy_, and I want to slap him for it. "I... I understand; I do. She was... she was important to _me_, too. But, Lily- She- She _died _atop _Drakon_. You were there; you know. It was you who carried her. This- this isn't our Lily. This is some _human _woman."_

"Alistair, you know, the Maker has His ways," the Orlesian says as she sits down. She puts some of the dresses aside and begins working on one, laying little vines of embroidery around the neckline. "I, for one, think that if Zevran says she is Lily, then she must be. He would know, better than any of us, and that's not even considering Ponka. I think that he _would be able to pick his mistress out of a thousand people."_

I am thankful for that vote of confidence - it gives me hope that I am not mad - but until Lily opens her lovely blue eyes once more, until she can say my name, until she walks and speaks, I can take no rest. Later, I can prove to Alistair - who, no matter the things we have seen and done, is too mired to unbend from his belief - that my _Lily has been returned to me. Two miracles have happened in my life; I will not waste this second chance. I dare not take anything for granted, not ever again. _

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

When I open my eyes, everything is a golden haze. There is warm skin and a strand of blond hair across my cheek, the press of a man's chest to my arm. It feels like waking up in a dentist's chair, that fuzzy, swaddled-in-cotton moment before all the pain comes crashing in, only it doesn't fade. I reach up, and it's like trying to move through honey. It's terrifying; I don't know where I am, can barely feel anything. "Zev...!" I mumble, desperate for him, the only thing I know in this crazy place. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down to kiss him, so glad that he's here.

"Whoa! Down girl!" he murmurs, chuckling and pulling back, and it's _not Zevran_.

I panic. I can't see, I don't know where I am, I just kissed a guy I don't know, but just as I'm gathering breath for a scream, a strange cold washes over me, like a forced calm. I'm stunned, and I can't really move or do anything for a moment. Slowly, my eyes begin to clear, and I become aware of a cold, blue light near my temple. A sharp face swims into view; his hair is a ruddy gold, his eyes brown, but there the resemblance to my Zev ends. He's tall and human, his eyes darker than my missing honey gold; he is watching me carefully, and I get the feeling he's not really looking _at_ me, so much as _through_ me.

The glow fades and his eyes focus on mine. He pulls his hand away, and there's nothing in it. Magic and fairy tale rules. I shiver, staring at him. I look around the room quickly, but there's not much in it: the bed, rope and ticking again; a desk with some papers and a hard wooden chair; a heavy wood door; painted walls, wooden floor; and a window that faces the sea. It's open, and a soft breeze lifts the curtains of simple white cloth, carrying the perfectly familiar tang of seaweed in the sun. There must still be something wrong with me, because I realize that I am caught in the sunbeam, the ocean loud in my ears, watching the way the fabric floats and flutters, and have missed what this man just asked me.

I snap my eyes back to him, blinking. "I'm sorry, what?"

His brow furrows and he runs his hand through my hair. I want to reach up and stop him - this gesture is too much familiarity from a stranger - but my arms just feel like lead. "Close your eyes," he says, and his voice echoes. I feel like I'm falling backward, and the room goes tunnel-vision on me, so I do as he suggests. I flirted with disaster in my wayward youth, and so, for a time, there were not many substances that were off my list of consumables. As a result, I learned to remain centred during states of altered consciousness. There's nothing I can do about this, so I have two options: I can either ride the tide or lose my mind to fear. So I focus on cold logic, because that's the only thing that is always stable. Logic: if I were going to be killed, I wouldn't be aware right now. I'd already be dead.

My head rings like a gong. A yawning chasm stretches out behind me, in the shape of my body. It sounds like a thousand bass voices joined on a single low note, and smells like the wind blowing through a hole in an ancient stone. I take a deep breath in through my nose and let it out through my mouth. Logic: if there is a mage healing me, then someone has taken the time to want me fixed. That gives me two options: either everything's fine, and Zev got me someplace in time, or I'm in for a world of shit from someone really sadistic. Fairy tale rules could mean anything, but logic is easier, and better for my calm, so I go with the idea that I'm probably safe.

Slowly, the humming fades, and I open my eyes again. He drops his hand, and I can see far more clearly. He looks tired... worn thin. I see him reach for a vial, and I also see that it's blue. Oh, I know what that is; no more, no, not on my account. My hand darts out, almost by itself, and I grab his wrist - or, well, I put my hand on it. He pauses anyway. "Wait." My voice is not very strong, but I can feel myself again, and I don't feel broken. I know what broken feels like. Everything is very tenuous... almost like... unset clay, maybe, or like one of those little wooden puppet toys you can get that are all held together with a string, and when you push the bottom button, they fall apart because the string goes slack. Wobbly, but together. "How long has it been since you rested?"

He stares at me, surprised by my concern for a moment, his lips twitching in a bit of self-deprecating amusement. "Since yesterday - but I'm a healer; it's what I do - and even without all the Fade's demons that your elf resembles dogging my heels, I would be doing this anyway," he assures me, with a slight inclination of his head, in acknowledgement of the worried expression I can feel twisting my face. "Zevran, he's probably debating whether he ought to kill Alistair or simply shout at him, while our fine, strapping, and generally amusing Templar-Commander has been threatening to sit on him for the last few hours. Anyway, don't worry, I know my limits." I'm forced to let go of his wrist as he polishes off the lyrium, and gives a full body shake, reminding me of Ponka after a refreshing romp. "Ah! Like fluffy candy sticks of madness and glee! Hits the spot!"

Ah, I've heard people say things like that before, usually at a rave. There's no convincing people out of that kind of thing. It's hard enough to talk yourself out of it, let alone someone else

At least I've gained the really important information: my Zev is okay - worried, obviously, but whole. Oh, my heart. I hope he's not too upset... Stupid boxes, squishing the fishie... At the same time, the healer's given me another piece of information, one that makes my blood thrill, but whether in fear or anticipation, I'm not entirely sure. _Alistair_ is here... I hope he doesn't think I'm a demon. Oh, gods. He's... oh no - the man himself. There was that whole... thing... with the rose... and... the kiss. And then there was all that tension. I know he... Oh _no_. He didn't sleep with Morrigan because of _me_, because if he couldn't have it the way he wanted - and oh, yes, I _knew_ what he wanted - he didn't want anything at all, and I just let it ride, because we had Riordan. I couldn't bring myself to force him to it, and now he's... _here_. Oh, my stupid _writing_!

Good gods, and he's like, six- four if he's an inch, with shoulders like a linebacker, and is... uh... oh, man, generally speaking, my physical type, with all the swinging of the shield and stuff. Oh no, the knight in shining armour. He's attractive and funny, and that's _bad_. I'm so toast. I do _not_ want to be caught between him and Zev, but I will be, in short order, I'm sure of it. Oh, and I had to go and do this to _myself_, oh _no_.

Swallowing, I fight to focus enough to ask the healer his name, trying to stay grounded in the here and now. "Uh... so... who are you?"

He smirks. "Anders! Grey Warden, nasty apostate, and popular with gents and ladies alike - at your service!" The facade of joviality drops from his face quickly and he becomes very serious, leaning in a little bit closer, his voice dropping in volume. "I'm not too sure how much time I have, but there's a question I need to ask you, and I don't want us to be interrupted."

"Hmh. Warden and apostate; two ticks to the positive in my book. Ask, and I'll try to answer as quickly as I can," I tell him, my voice quiet. I try to show steady lucidity, but I don't know how well that comes through.

Anders clears his throat. "Now, this may be uncomfortable for you to talk about, but I assure you, I am a _healer_, and that means I follow a strict personal credo that anyone who needs help, I help. I can't allow people to suffer - beyond foisting my bad jokes on them of course, a man has to have a sense of humor. There was... a lot of damage. Old damage. But what I saw- Look, Lady Mahariel, I know what causes those things, and the new damage could easily cover up anything... recent, or partially healed. So - do you need help? Because if you do, all you have to do is say the word. I will make sure no one can hurt you, until my last breath."

At first, I can't even fathom what he's talking about, 'do I need help'. It's like my mind can't hold what happened before in the same thought as Zev now, but then, of course, that's what he's asking, and it makes me want to vomit. "Are you-" No, no, it's okay, he's not accusing Zev, he just doesn't understand. This guy's like a doctor, has some version of the Hippocratic Oath going on for him. I close my eyes and cock my head, trying to hold in the flash of anger over the very _idea_, and struggle to answer coherently. He doesn't know us, and he's a good man, to be trying to offer me something like that. I wish I'd met him six years ago. Ah, there's a starting point. I take a deep breath and meet his gaze without flinching.

"You know, I wish I'd met you a long time ago, actually, because there was a time when I did need that, and I would have said yes." I put my hand over his, even though moving feels kinda risky. "So honestly, whole-heartedly, _thank you_. Maybe things could have been different for me if you had been around the last time I ended up in the hos- healer's room. But... No, not anymore. In that regard, I don't think I could _ever_ be safer. I'm pretty sure that if he met the man who did that stuff to me, Zev would kill him on the spot." I look away, down at my hands. "If I told him about it..." I wince as my train of thought pulls in to its inevitable destination. "Uh... Oh no. Did _you_ tell him about it?"

"Hmm... Sorry to say, but I had to, to see how he reacted. Well, that does explain why he went pale, but I couldn't be sure if that was because I had noticed, or because he didn't know." He puts his free hand over mine, and they're warm; not like normal or hot hands, but they... radiate... like sunlight is warm on the grass. "It's wrong that no one was there for you, that your healers didn't intercede the way they should have," he murmurs, in all seriousness, and it makes my eyes burn, how kind and steady he seems. "Why did they leave so much damage unmended? Even a hedge witch with basic skills could have taken care of most of the breaks and tears."

I shake my head. What can I say to that? I don't want to talk about where I've come from. It's too... out of the ken of this world. How do you explain casts and wires, bone-screws and learning how to walk again after six months in a wheelchair? "Uh... They didn't use magic."

He blinks, surprised, then I see a quick thundercloud pass behind his eyes before he goes sympathetic on me again. "That's just- That's wrong. I don't know how you were still functioning," he says, leaning back.

To this, I actually have an answer. "Sheer force of will, sir."

I think he's about to say more, but then he just shakes his head and straightens, all business, and lays my hand across my stomach. "Well, that's it then. I just need to get you patched the rest of the way up, and you, Lady Mahariel, are going to have to eat like you're someone's mother-in-law, because your body will need all the fuel it can get. And you won't be able to traipse around like this is the fair, at least not for a week or so, while the healing sets. Really, I recommend at least a month of little steps, and enough food to feed an army. Or one Warden, which is pretty much the same thing." He winks.

Anders rubs his hands together briskly, and I see the glow rising between them, then he holds them out over my stomach, his eyes going through me again, and I feel like I've just slipped into a warm bath, or maybe like someone just threw an electric blanket over me. A strange, shivery sensation washes over me in three waves, touching on every part of me, and I can't help but gasp. He pulls back again, a moment later, shaking his hands like he's trying to shed water from them, and smirks at me. "Whoa, that was... uh... wow," I mumble, completely incoherent, and he laughs.

"Ah, just what a man likes to hear," he remarks, and I blush, which makes him laugh again.

I feel... steadier. "Anders... Thank you." I never liked getting healing from other people; I don't like the idea of taking energy from someone else - it feels wrong unless it's dire... which, I guess, this time it was. But still, I can see exactly how much it really takes out of a person, and it makes me feel guilty. "Just... one thing, please... don't call me that. Please... It's just 'Lily', okay? I was once a Warden, too... Let's not stand on ceremony."

He blinks at me, frowning. "'Once'? You don't get to retire, 'just Lily'. But, then again, you're not even Tainted."

I smile thinly. "Yeah... being dead tends to change a person."

Raised voices sound from the hallway, distracting me. "-And I tell you Ponka knows! He and I both are not _fools_! That is my Lily."

_Oh, no._ My eyes snap to the door and I bite my lip, waiting for the argument to fall into my lap.

"Look, look Zevran-" Another man's voice, accented and placating, responds. "I'm not saying you're crazy - or, well, maybe I am - but honestly, Lily's dead. You saw the body, I saw the body, we all did. I know you don't want to think about it, I can't even pretend to understand how hard it must be for you -"

Zevran's voice is enraged; I've never heard him like this. "'How hard it must be' for me? '_How __hard it must be'_? You stupid, whiny little _child_! I _died_ that day! You are only saying this- this- _this_ because you think I am crazed with grief, that I will not notice what you are really doing, yes? You and I both know very well that you are judging me, that you believe I was unworthy of her, and that I now grasp at straws to replace her!"

Dammit. My eyes are burning again, and I am _not_ going to cry in front of three men. This is so not okay. "Stop!" I shout at the top of my lungs. That's not very loud at this point, but I try.

Anders draws himself up, clearing his throat; his voice is strong, and it carries through the closed door. "Hey - that's enough, guys. If you want to act like tom cats in an alley, be my guest, but my patient needs calm and serene surroundings." There is steel in the mage's voice, beneath that cajoling tone, and I see his fingers spark. "And she could probably use a better view than of you two. I make this skirt look _good_, while you two look like unwashed buffoons. Probably because you are."

I put my hands over my face, torn between anguish over what's going on in the hallway and laughing at Anders. "Well, now that Zev knows I'm awake, you can't keep him out. You'll have to open the door, I think. At least for a minute." I look back up at the healer. "Please?"

"Oh I can keep them _both_ out, missy." He holds up a glowing fist, grinning as he casts me a wink. "But, if it will make you happy, then _fine_, fine... Way to make a man feel appreciated..." He mumbles to himself as though bemoaning his fate. "Always elves, why do they always go for elves? I really need to have some pointy ears myself..."

I laugh. "I didn't exactly say you had to _go_," I reply, playing along.

The door opens before Anders can reply, and I can't help but try to sit up. "_Amora_, please." My Zev rushes over to me so quickly it takes a moment to register, and cups my face in his hands. "Please be careful. Lie back, do not push yourself."

I hate to say it, but as everything creaks a little, I feel like a house of cards, and, with an irritated little growl for my own weakness, lay back down. Carefully. Hmh, if I were at home, it feels like I'd be in a full-body cast. That's... not good. "Okay, for a minute, but I have to sit up soon anyway; I'll need to be able to at least have something to drink."

"Then I shall send someone to fetch you some pillows." The calluses on his thumbs trace my cheekbones as he rests his forehead against mine, and I close my eyes, all the tension I didn't know I'd had just flowing out of me again. "And until then, I shall hold you up," he continues, and then he is slipping into the bed behind me, scooting me around very gingerly, too fast for anyone to tell him 'no'. Strong arms come around my waist, gently pulling me up to his chest, and beneath my head I can feel his heart beating. "Just relax, _dolcezza_, I have you."

I turn my face, pressing my forehead to his neck and breathe deeply, finally feeling safe again. Not that Anders doesn't seem like a nice or safe person, because if I'd met him at the hospital when I woke up there last time, I would've gone with him in a heartbeat. He's just... it's not the same. "Thank the gods, you're all right," I murmur. I twine my fingers between Zev's and close my eyes as a wave of weariness overtakes me, followed by a heavy shiver. This is so not okay. I don't have time to be broken.

I feel Zev stiffen as the other man speaks up again. "Look, not to interrupt, but who _are_ you?"

"Alistair - how many times must I-" I touch Zev's hand, stopping him from falling into a rant. Oh no, here he is. Deep breaths. One thing at a time.

"_Hamin, emma sa'lath. Emma dorf'lin isala ar dirth'era emma aravel._ (1)" I whisper to Zev, and he squeezes my fingers, gently. I turn my head to look Alistair in the eye, this knight, this Warden, this man who has been my brother... and was almost a lot more than that. "Alistair." I swallow, trying to steady myself. "I understand your confusion, and... it's not exactly easy for _me_, either, just being here, okay? But I _am_ Lily. Ask me anything, anything that only I could know. However, please try to keep in mind that I've just been squashed by a pile of damnably heavy boxes."

He looks so strange out of plate and in the flesh, instead of polygons and pixels, but the way he rubs his chin, eyes narrowed - that is 100% Suspicious Alistair. "Hmm... All right, I've got one. How did Jory do when he became a Warden?"

Ah, a trick question. In my writing, we went 'round and 'round over this, whether Jory really counted as one of us, whether Duncan was justified, what could have been if either of the other recruits at my Joining would have survived. So I give him the response he's looking for: I groan. "Oh, Alistair, do we have to have that discussion _again_? Really? I still say he didn't officially become one, because he never took the cup. He had all the brains the gods gave a shiny brown rock, and he showed it when he pulled his blade on Duncan."

"Hmph, you're sure about that? Well, it was too bad, because maybe then Morrigan could have had someone other than me to focus her bitchiness on," he says, and I can see he's trying to suss me out more by the way he describes her, but I don't say anything. I really, _really_ don't want to talk about Morrigan. "What about Daveth then?"

I sigh. Daveth had made me very sad. "I wish he would've survived the Joining; he was strong, and funny. But..." My voice grows quiet as I remember the horror of that moment. "I saw how he fought; he almost did it. He was one of us."

Alistair looks a little spooked, but keeps it together. "Look on the bright side, he was a rogueish sort, and if he'd made it-"

I wince, squeezing Zev's hands that are draped over my stomach, and hasten to interrupt him. "Don't say it. Don't say what you're thinking; it's wrong. It wouldn't have mattered, in the end. That was a moment of weakness on a cold night, when the wounds were still fresh, so don't you repeat it, for gods' sake."

My brother-in-all-but-body seems to lose all his strength and staggers to lean against the wall, covering his face with his hands. "Lily? It... it _is_ you?"

I sigh, starting to feel like I'm about to pass out. "'Fraid so. Sorry I didn't have time to write ahead. I didn't know I was coming."

His laugh has an edge to it as he peers out at me through his spread fingers. "Yeah, so you just swooped down out of the sky? You know-"

I snort, saying along with him, "Swooping is bad." I sigh again. "I know. But, actually, no... I drowned. Far less entertaining - I don't really recommend it. The rest is a really long story," I mumble, and I turn my head back to press my face into Zev's neck as I lose the fight to keep my eyes open. "I can... lots of story..." I say, losing the thread as I feel Zev's fingers sliding through my hair, tilting my head back, and it feels so good, so soothing. "Mmmh... _Ma tu'emma reth_ (2), Zev," I whisper, and I feel his lips press against my ear, but I can't hear what he says... the ocean is too loud.

1. Relax, my one love. My Grey brother needs me to tell the story of my long journey.  
2. You keep me safe.


	8. Choice

The Warden stronghold in Antiva is a veritable warren. I have a hard time keeping the nest of rooms straight, as there are hallways that sprout out of what looks like it ought to be a closet door, and doors that suddenly pop from the wall with a servant behind them, folding almost seamlessly back into the wood once closed. There is a fair-sized library, a kitchen, a huge dining hall and the big back-room table that all the Wardens take their meals at, a series of little cells that house the other Wardens, a courtyard with a nice fountain/well thing, and a lot of arched windows with dark wood shutters that open and close to let in the ocean air or shut out the heat. All the walls are made of plaster and wood, seems like, and there is art everywhere. Mostly, it manifests in mosaics, carved and inlaid wood, and beautifully intricate paintings that put me vaguely in mind of Mucha by way of Frida Khalo, who then ran off and had an illicit love-child with a Gypsy.

The place is tall, at three stories, but compact, with other buildings on the outside crowded fairly close - too close, I would think, but Alistair says there are plenty of sentries, and there's not much to recommend worrying about it, anyway. Our room is on the second floor and small, but it catches a fair breeze and is shaded from the midday sun by a conveniently-placed tree. We just have the bed with a bedside table, a bench-topped trunk at the foot of the bed, a washstand, and a polished-silver mirror. Zev didn't even bat an eyelash when I turned the mirror to the wall, as soon as I was able to get up and move around. It didn't occur to me until later that it would make sense to him because of Tamlen, and that rather neatly avoids my real issue, which started with _Poltergeist 3_ and culminated in a brief period of time where I was terrified of anything with a reflective surface, after being scarred for life by Japanese horror films. No matter what, I will always be wary of reflections.

I've only made it down to the kitchens once during a meal-time, and that was completely by accident. Having a room full of men suddenly descend on me did nothing for my nerves, and I beat a hasty retreat, to the sound of cat-calls and laughter. I hope Alistair has found the sense of camaraderie he was looking for, amongst these other Wardens.

I've been broken before, but I'm not used to being fragile. I mean, a state of being broken is a temporary thing, and being strong is a permanent thing. At least, that's how I'm used to seeing myself. This... this is not helping me. I'm not trying to be a pain in the ass, but it seems to be coming naturally. I don't do very well as an invalid. I'm impatient. I don't want to sit, I want to walk. I don't want to hide, but I have to. We're all hiding. Hiding, hiding, doing nothing. I feel completely useless, and it's driving me crazy. I can't stand to not be useful.

The biggest problem is that it's only been a week.

Carefully, oh, so very carefully, I am trying to build up my strength. Everything is still... barely holding together. It's getting better, day by day, but in the absence of any real damage, there's only so much Anders can do. What's really strange is that I'm suddenly the same height as Zev. Gaining two inches has thrown off my centre of balance, as has the fact that I no longer have my right hip two inches higher than the left. My left arm and my neck are straight. My ribs don't creak when I lean to the side, and my jaw doesn't randomly try to dislocate itself when I'm eating.

I've stopped having migraines, and this is a huge revelation, because I had no idea how much my head actually hurt, _all the time_, until now. I can see more clearly - I didn't even realize how blurry my vision had become, until it wasn't anymore. My feet are straight - the bones don't grind when I walk, and the knife-blades that used to stick into my soles every time I took a step have simply vanished. I've even lost scars, for which I am extremely grateful. No more cigarette-burn mark on my breast, no more knife scar across my calf, and no more surgery scar on my foot. I even lost the little mark on my wrist that I accidentally gave myself one day when I was careless in the shop, cleaning up a pane of glass that I had broken while trying to install windows in a hutch. I kind of miss that one; it was cute. Like a little heart-shaped balloon.

During the day, I explore until I'm too tired, which doesn't take as long as it should. I'm grumpy about how slow everything is, when I don't feel broken. There's no pain to tell me when to stop. My back doesn't even hurt anymore, and that was such a constant ache that it's strange to have it gone. The worst part is that my hands don't want to cooperate yet. They're too weak to hold a knife properly - I can't even carve. There's nothing to _do_. Even reading is a strain, because my eyes are still adjusting to being able to focus. Can't sew or embroider, even as Leliana sits by me with amazing lengths of vines and flowers and lace just falling out of her fingers, because I can't hold a damned needle long enough.

All that's left is talk, talk, talk. I'm so tired of talking, but it's all I can do, most of the time, just lay here and talk. The bad thing about it is that there're always questions. Questions, questions, and more questions. I try to answer as truthfully as I can, but I know that it's pretty obvious sometimes that I'm being evasive.

Leliana holds up the dress she's working on, inspecting it. "Oh, this will not do... These necklines are far too matronly! No one will ever believe a woman as beautiful as you would wear something so... stolid."

I give the dress in question a heavy look, even as I blush at the compliment. "Looks daring enough to me."

"Tsk-tsk, always with this way you have. Why is it you Dalish are so uncomfortable with your bodies?" She believes us, 100%. She has so much faith in her Maker, even though she's hardened, that she believes there should be a chance for people who have worked so hard to not be denied what they truly deserve - which is each other - and I love her for that. She shakes her head, and tugs at one of her braids, pursing her full lips.

Ah, there's a little habit I didn't write about. These people keep surprising me in strange ways. I know them so well, but then sometimes it's like I don't know them at all, and that... I don't like that feeling, I really don't. I don't need to think about what to say in reply, as the answer to that's fairly natural to me. "When all you've ever been valued by was your body, having the choice to hide it is the closest thing to freedom you can get. A neckline too low is just begging for someone to try and grab something they're not entitled to."

"Mmh, this is very true. But your Creators made you, just as the Maker made us." Setting her work aside, she turns to look at me with those deceptively guileless eyes. "Should we not celebrate what we have been given? I do not think that your Zevran would ever let anyone even dare to _consider_ grabbing something that is not within their rights."

I can't help but smile at that, as it's true. He'd take their fingers off at the shoulder. "Yeah... _That's_ a solid truth." I feel kinda warm and fuzzy just thinking about it. I've never had a man be so protective of me in my life. "Well, it's not like I'm _ashamed_. I just... don't like to put myself on display. It's... that's not for _them_. It's just... just for him, really."

She taps her chin, gaze turning towards the ceiling. "Simply because it is for him, and him alone, does not mean that you should hide yourself away. Zevran is a man, and any man very much likes to showcase that which is his. Also, I believe it gives them the chance to defend their territory by inviting even the perception of 'attack'. Hah!" She giggles. "I think it is all very romantic."

I groan good-naturedly. "Ohh, stop being right." I cover my eyes with my hand, blushing. "Yeeeess... all right. But... I don't want there to be any danger that I might fall out. I hate that."

"Oh, live a little!" Clapping her hands together and rubbing them with glee, the bard grabs up another dress and a pair of shears. "Hmm, yes! I know just the thing to liven this up! We must accentuate that neck of yours and the clean lines of your torso..."

Ohhh... she's gonna make me wear a bunch of _dresses_. I sigh. Just think of it as a never-ending SCA event. Right.

I roll my head to look at her again. "So... uh... Lels?"

"Hmm?"

I have been dying to know. I can't... avoid the issue forever. It's driving me crazy, and she's the only one I can talk to about things like this. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Something I can help with?"

"Uh... how..." I look at my nails, fidgeting. "How long was I... uh... gone? Because I wouldn't have thought you'd be here in Antiva."

She purses her lips, snipping a few more stitches, glances at me from the corner of her eye - oh, and that's a wily, knowing look if I've ever seen one - and then she begins to tell me the story I've been too afraid to ask Zev for. "Hmmm... How strange that the ending is the beginning of this tale. A terrible scream and a blinding light from the top of Fort Drakon heralded the death of the archdemon. Deprived of direction, the darkspawn mostly fled. I knew something was wrong when Alistair just stood there, rooted to the spot, but I could not imagine what, until we saw Zevran coming down the street with you in his arms. He didn't respond to anyone at all, only staring mutely into some unfathomable distance, until Alistair tried to touch you. The look in his eye then was positively murderous as he snarled at Alistair in his native tongue, words we did not understand, though his meaning was perfectly clear.

"That very night, Zevran walked out of the city with you still in his arms. We tried to follow, but he would not allow it. Alistair knew you would be dead before Zevran appeared, that much was clear; when he figured that out, Zevran became enraged. It was an ugly fight. He and Alistair nearly came to blows over whether you should be put to pyre as 'befitted a hero of the people', while Zevran insisted that you must be returned to your own people for burial. Ponka went south with him, and I never saw nor heard anything about them, not even a whisper, after that." That means he probably stayed with my clan for a time, and that he was carrying my dead body with him for about two months. I shudder, my heart breaking for him all over again. "There was a giant state funeral, while Alistair went mad with a black despair. I stayed with him, to make sure he didn't go off and become a drunk; for a while I wasn't sure whether even I could stop him."

Leliana sighs, a little exasperated puff of air that says, 'well, enough of that'. "Oghren went down to Lake Calenhad to see Felsi, and became a Warden as well, which no one quite expected. Wynne became embroiled in Circle politics, and I believe she might be making some headway for mages, but nothing is certain. Sten simply vanished, taking Shale with him; I'm sure he's gone back to Seheron. I never saw Morrigan again, but I would not be surprised if she went home, as well. We stayed in Denerim, though, and tried to help with the rebuilding efforts. I made it my personal project to help Sanga, because I knew you would have wanted me to, considering the way you two used that place as your home. She spoke quite fondly of you." She catches my expression out of the corner of her eye and smiles, winking at me.

"Oh, yes, I know you weren't as depraved as you pretended to be. Whatever you may have been content for others to believe, I could see what a jealous beast he is, and how besotted you both are. Speaking to Sanga only confirmed my suspicions: the only people who came in and out of that room were you and your Zevran." She pauses, peering closely at the seam she is ripping out, and pulls on a loose thread, trying to dislodge a stubborn knot, tutting to herself under her breath. The way she tells it, and considering the words they had in the hallway when I woke up after being squashed, I'd bet dollars to doughnuts that whether I was buried or cremated wasn't the only thing they argued about that night. I feel kind of ill. I seriously don't want to be caught between them like that.

"Hmmm... this thread is much stronger than it has any right to be," Leliana mutters, tugging on it again, and it suddenly snaps. "Ah, there. Now, where was I? Oh, Denerim. Despite the fact that Anora had promised you and Alistair no reprisals for his bloodline, I began to hear troublesome things about her changing view, the more the people in the city naturally gravitated toward his determined effort at putting it to rights. Amaranthine had been seeing a lot of chaos, and its city lies on a major trade route from the port cities; there were reports of darkspawn incursions, so he went there to take it up, and I followed him. We met Anders there, and together, we and a few others retook the keep and defended the city from another invasion."

She glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and I can see she's a bit haunted by the memory of whatever passed there. Her voice is soft, carrying a memory of old horror, when she says, "They're getting smarter; the next Blight will be a very different animal." I wonder what the hell could have happened, but I guess I can ask for that story another time. She shakes herself, and her voice goes back to normal as she continues. "It took us a little over six months to defend Amaranthine. After that, Anora became very suspicious toward Alistair, and so, at my suggestion, he wrote to Warden strongholds in other countries, until he was able to find a place here. The former Commander had been fighting his Calling because there was no one he trusted to take the reins, and had been waiting unsuccessfully for a missive from the Anderfels for a long time. Anders came with us to get away from overzealous Templars who insisted on seeing 'mage' above 'Grey Warden'. That was... oh... four- no, nearly five months ago."

Over a year for her, when you count travel time. Zev was alone for _a year_. I only lasted three days. I bite my lower lip, hard, and look away. And I thought that _I_ had been tormented, that month at sea. He must have felt on the brink of madness. She takes a deep breath, pulling the bodice's neckline apart completely. "As for your Zevran, well. Who knows where he may have roamed, no? But he left the same way he came back, to my eyes."

With me, broken and bloody in his arms.

Eventually, as always happens, I pass out again, pretty much mid-sentence. This healing process has been very, very weird that way. It's like... flipping a switch, and that's it. Wham - blackout. I wake up when I've got something in me, then I'm ravenous, and then I'm okay for a few more hours. Anders tells me this is normal, but it's still really disconcerting to blink and have it be dark... and have Leliana turn into Anders. I hate that. I'm used to being a light sleeper. The idea that people have been coming and going while I'm passed out and completely defenceless freaks me out, even if these people _are_ safe to be around.

Anders has his hands spread over my stomach again, brow furrowed, and I wait for the glow to fade before I speak. I don't know if he can talk or do other stuff while he's casting, but... I don't want to distract him. Even if he can, it seems... rude. "Am I still in one piece?"

As his gaze focuses, he glances around the room. There's no one with us, and the door is shut. "Hmm... yes. Mostly. There's something I've been meaning to ask you about... something that doesn't... make a lot of sense. There are scars... like someone..." He sucks in a deep breath and grits his teeth. "Like someone stirred the pot, so to speak, with sharp objects."

I blink at him, completely confused. "Uh... what?"

Anders winces and tugs at his earring. "Look, if you don't want to talk about it, that's all right. I just, I don't... I know you say that your healers didn't use magic, but this looks like they didn't use _anything_, unless you count the knife they used to tear up your girly bits."

His bluntness is always a direct contrast to the intent. By now, the apostate knows that I'd much rather he just throw it down, when he's got something to say. Certain subjects, I don't want to pussyfoot around, and I'm not going to let my feelings get bent out of shape because I have to answer an honest question about my health. I may not volunteer information, but I'm not gonna lie, so just spit it out - that's how I am. Still, I have to cringe at his description.

My hand automatically moves to cover my lower belly, remembering the pain, terror and shock. Oh, America: land of 'Family First', but never mind the destitute and helpless - they should have known better than to breed. Never mind a scared eighteen-year-old girl, who listened to her boyfriend telling her he was going to make everything be okay again, who listened to the older adults around her saying that she'd be ruining her life, who was hundreds of miles from anyone that called her 'family' enough to care. She should have known better than to let someone touch her, you see, and so immoral girls get what they deserve: being strapped down, forcefully and forcibly dilated, and a nurse covering my mouth as I screamed in agony because there was no anesthetic, no medicine, no nothing.

All the while the doctor and the nurses were doing their 'job', they were 'punishing' me for not adhering to their religious beliefs.

Shit. I know I just went pale, too.

Anders sits next to me on the edge of the bed, taking both of my hands in his, that warm sunlight glow radiating from him. He has an air of understanding and calm. "I can fix what was done to you, physically. I can only help with the emotional stuff if you want someone to talk to. Nothing you can say will shock me, but if it's too personal, you don't have to worry. I can pretend I didn't see anything, and just fix up the damage. It's up to you."

I stare at him for a long moment, torn with indecision. I've never breathed a word of it to anyone. The only reason he knows is because he can see things that no one else can. In a quite literal way, his mage-sight gives him access to what has to be the most awesome set of x-ray glasses ever created. "First... uh... look, if I tell you any of this, it can't..."

He interrupts me, shaking his head. "My word, Lily." He is earnest, and squeezes my hands firmly. "I can only heal what I'm allowed to, beyond a certain point, and it's all I want to do - it's who I am, _what_ I am. You need it, and I'm here to provide it, in any capacity I can. What you tell me, I'll never repeat, not even under torture, and trust me, I know just how... _persuasive_ Templars can be. When they've a mind for it, what they can do is far worse than what the Guild could ever consider. What you tell me, I'll never tell another, and I mean it. If you can't tell me, that's all right too... but I'm here if you need me."

I can't help but grip his hands tightly as he tells me exactly what he's already had to resist... survivors, aren't we all. I take a deep breath, and just jump off into the deep end. "Okay... well... yeah. You're pretty much not very far off the mark. That's... what they do... when there's a baby, and... you can't... you can't keep it. For whatever reason."

"Was it your choice? Did you know what they were going to do?" These questions are only being asked because he's surprised and curious, with no hint of judgement aimed towards me. He's completely neutral and supportive in one breath. I'm really not used to a person being so unbiased on this subject.

I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my face aside, because I can't help it, I'm choking on it, trying to hold back from crying. No one ever cared what I wanted, in that situation, and nothing could have prepared me for the reality of it. If I'd known that I was walking in to get butchered... at the very least, I would have chosen a different clinic. "Uh... Does it _look_ like something someone would do to themselves on purpose?" My voice is harsh and I can't take a full breath.

"No." He sighs, shifting, and I can tell he wants to offer me a hug, but I really only let Zev and Ponka touch me, so far. There is a big brother vibe to him that makes it mean far more to me that he _wants_ to offer a supporting touch, but can read me well enough to know that it would freak me out more than it would help. "I take it that they didn't explain what they would do."

I take a really deep breath. "Uh... I had a basic idea of the process; from what I understand, it's not supposed to be so barbaric, and most women are fairly and gently treated. However, these people, in particular... they just... they had a religious axe to grind, and so they didn't care whether I came out of it whole. So... I wasn't forced in there at knife-point, no, but it also wasn't my idea, at all. But... but... no, no explanations, no magic, not a scrap of anything. Not even drugs to dull the pain. I felt everything, every moment, from the instant it began until it finally stopped bleeding two weeks later, and then every time the moon was full for the next four years." I still can't open my eyes, because if I do, the tears will fall out, so I hide behind my hair.

Anders is very quiet, but he doesn't let go of my hands, which is good because I've pretty much got a death grip. He just sits there with me, waiting until I can talk again. I've never been able to say any of this to anyone, because they would have judged me, and it's never come up, because no one can see scars that are on the inside. However, even though life seems to be the thing that Anders wants to protect most, it also seems to me that he feels protecting life isn't just about keeping something breathing, but about helping it _live_. "I lost one after that because of... the uh, the guy who, y'know," I equivocate, gesturing quickly to take in the sites of my old injuries, and Anders nods with understanding. "He wasn't happy that I was pregnant, so... he... uh, that's when my jaw- and, uh, anyway, the d- healer told me then that I wouldn't be able to have children at all, that I would lose them all."

There is a pause while he strokes his thumbs over the backs of my hands and he seems to be considering his words carefully. "I would say that you _could_ carry a child, but the birth would most likely kill you. I can fix that, and I plan on it, but it's a pretty personal process. Quite... intense. If you think a basic healing spell is fun, just wait until you're conscious for a full blast."

I take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to get control of my face, now that I've got a decent grip on my voice. I open my eyes, though I don't look up, and only two tears fall out, to land on the trailing strands of my hair, still hidden. "What do you mean by 'intense', exactly?"

"Well, it stimulates _everything_." He coughs delicately. "And, ah, those of us who know _exactly_ what we're doing can choose which it is: painful or pleasurable. I usually go for pleasure, as pain tends to shock the body and set back the healing process. It's an all-or-nothing procedure. You only get the two choices: good or bad."

"Shit," I whisper under my breath. Do I want to have kids someday? Hell yes. Do I think I could talk about this again? No. It's now or never, because I'm a bloody coward. "Uh, what would-"

"I can go get Zevran, so you don't feel too... you know. Overwhelmed," he says, patting my hands.

"No!" That comes out harsher than I mean it to, and I clear my throat, self-consciously. "Uh, I mean... He... I don't want him to know. I already don't like that he knows about the... other stuff. So, so just... Tell me what you have to do."

He looks surprised. "You don't want him to know? Look, take it from a man: we'd rather _know_ what demons we need to fight on behalf of our loved ones. It reminds us just how _easily_ those we love can be taken from us, or hurt, because of something little that explodes to epic proportions. He isn't stupid; no doubt he would have confronted you about it at some point, after the 'new' wore off."

I can feel my face twisting into a grimace, and I shake my head. "We're not 'new'. It was two years through the Blight. But, he- You- You think _we_, of _all_ people, haven't already had _plenty_ of that kind of reminder? I don't want to torture him any more than I already have."

"Look, think on it this way: wouldn't you like to know what _his_ triggers were, so you could avoid them?" he points out, sounding entirely too reasonable. "Like, do small spaces bug him, or does the sensation of having his fingers immobilized make him go into a sweat? Sure, you could just try and avoid _everything_ for fear of triggering something, but how many things are there in this world that qualify as a possibility? The simplest things can be sources of terror for someone, somewhere."

"I know! I know... I just- Look, I swear to you that the rest is going to come out eventually, because I have nightmares, and I startle too easily, and all kinds of other things - the scars you've erased, so maybe he won't think to ask about that anymore - but I know the rest... the rest will have to come, and I'll talk to him about it when it does. But not this. Not this." Please, not this. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to show him all the weak that I have always been, not when his Lily was so much stronger. Gods, I'll never be able to live up to her towering prestige.

Anders heaves a sigh, and rubs his forehead. "You're assuming he won't notice things, when the man is as obsessed with you as the Maker was with Andraste." He holds up his hands in a surrendering gesture, before I can protest further. "However, I can only advise and suggest. Now, as to what will happen during the process, it's not too different from what I've been doing, it's just the intensity and the... cumulative effect. It tends to make for a good end to a night if I'm too busy or drunk or, well... not interested in my partner enough to bring things to a finish in the usual way. Full body tremors, shakes - you name it, it'll happen. That's why I said perhaps it would be wiser to bring in Zevran, so that he doesn't come in here trying to kill me for hurting you, or for, uh, taking advantage."

"Ah. Shit. Um... I really don't want to have that conversation with him right now, though."

"Tsh, like he has to know _what_ I'm healing, or why." Anders rolls his eyes at me. "All _he_ has to know is that this is the last round of healing, and then all you'll need is some time. Since you were never conscious for the full heals that he saw... he won't know what is and isn't happening, exactly. He can just be here for moral support and to hold you sort of still while you thrash and say somebody's name."

I swallow. "Uh... Look, I... I see why you think it's a good plan, and... I mean, I get it. But... If I can get away with doing this quietly, I'd rather go for that, okay? Just... I'll... Just stick an arm around me and let me bite my shirt."

"What Lily wants, Lily gets," he says, shrugging heavily, and I feel my eyebrows draw together. There's... something not right here, and I really don't like the way he phrased that, like I'm being selfish. "Well, I really could've used help to keep you in place. This will make it more difficult."

Ah. "Um, hey now, wait," I say, before he has a chance to do anything other than grab some lyrium.

"Hmm?" He cracks his knuckles and stretches his arms.

"You actually need someone in here to hold me down, that's different. I'm not gonna screw around with it. You made it sound like it was my preference, and not a... uh... y'know, vital thing."

"Well it really _is_ up to you," he says, frowning. "It'll just make my job a little bit more difficult on the focusing, that's all. It's honestly not a big deal to me, because your comfort is the most important part." My ass, it's no big deal. He wouldn't have mentioned it if it weren't important.

I stall. "Tell me where you have to put your hands."

Anders glances at his hands, then at me. "I don't _have_ to put them anywhere. I just hold them above you a little, like usual. It's _easier_ if I put them over your abdomen; I have less chance of slipping, that way. What I'm doing is basically... your body has one of two responses to extreme change: pleasure or pain. It's easiest to just let the body stay in the pain state, but I don't like doing that, and you don't need to deal with that again, at all. What I will be trying to do is concentrate on keeping you in an opposite state from pain, which would be pleasure, while maintaining a delicate balance between viewing and encouraging your organs to their optimal - or at the very least, most natural - state. Wiggling around will make it harder for me to keep my 'view' on the affected area, but it _is_ doable. I want you to have a choice, Lily. It doesn't seem like anyone ever gave you much of one before, at least when it comes to your own body."

I still don't have one, even though he says I do. He has to be able to do his job, and my arguing is not helping anything. Ah, it's a sweet sentiment, but it doesn't _matter_ what I want - in this regard, it never, ever has - it just matters what Anders needs to be able to do this, and it isn't my ass being mulish. "Yeah, right. 'Kay; got it. Sorry. Get Zev, then." I tuck my hands in my armpits and curl up in a little ball. The only choice I've got is whether or not I wanna die having babies, and considering what I've already done to Zev, there's just no option there, either. Ah, hell, and with the magic, what we'd probably have is an instant orphan. At best. Now _there's_ a thought to make me shudder.

Anders disappears for few minutes, and the whole time, I keep wanting to chicken out, but Ponka whines at me, and lays his head on my hip. He's too smart for my own good. He knows, this giant beast that has taken down ogres, and his intent look up at me, including his wiggling eyebrows and those funny little fringed eyelashes, tells me that he loves me unconditionally, that he wants me healed, and that he'll be all big and scary, and fight off anything bad that tries to hurt me. I choke on a small sob and turn over to give him a tight hug about his thick neck.

"Oh, Ponka, what would I do without you?" A wet nose stamps itself on my cheek in answer, and I can feel his tail-stub waggle with happiness.

I hear Zev's voice in the hallway, growing closer. "-Last healing?" Hah. Yeah. Unless I fuck myself up again.

Anders snaps his fingers, coming into the room just ahead of my assassin. "Yup. One more full blast, and then everything should be put to rights. I just need you to keep her still, as there will be quite a bit of thrashing."

"I remember." Zev nods and then smiles at me warmly, reassuringly, making me feel like a total bitch. I do not deserve this man, I swear. "_Cara mia_, it seems that this will be the last bout. You do not remember the first ones, but I had to hold you still so he could do his work." Before I can say anything, Ponka hops off the bed and Zev slides onto it behind me, his legs framing mine, and his arms coming about my chest. "These can be rather intense, I am told. It seems that our apostate here is far more skilled than Wynne was, in terms of healing on this scale."

"More practice," Anders grunts as he polishes off some lyrium. It's a little scary how much of it he consumes, and I do worry for him, but he always seems calm and sober. I can't tell how much of his slightly off-kilter sense of humour is him, and how much of it's the potions, but he's never less than lucid.

"More empathy," I mumble.

Zev's lips press to my temple as he agrees, too softly for Anders to hear. "Far more. I've never known the like, outside of yourself."

I don't have the chance to respond. Suddenly my back arches, but I'm held mostly immobile as Zev's arms wrap tightly around my shoulders and waist, crushing me to him. The most intense orgasm of my life rockets through my whole body, and I scream at the instant strength of it, even though I try to grit my teeth on it, and it is made all the more powerful by the lack of the usual buildup. My head snaps back against Zev's shoulder, and he presses his cheek to mine; I can feel the corner of his mouth against mine, and some wild part of me wants to just turn my head and take advantage of it. My hands flex and scratch uselessly against his leather-clad thighs as my organs shake and spasm inside my sex, every single nerve alight with a riot of stimulation.

I cling to the shreds of my rationality as each little particle of me stands to attention; I am suspended in liquid ecstasy, and lose track of time as I struggle with myself, panting and trying to ride through it with some scrap of decency left intact. It occurs to me that I'm in a very small room with two _men_, while this is happening, and I try to focus on just keeping my knees together. Tremors ricochet all over me, as the intensity slowly eases up. For a long moment more I hover just on the other side of that threshold, though I feel the healing energies slowly ebb, and I moan brokenly, before I can stop myself.

I open my eyes as everything fades to a dull glow, and see Anders holding his hands over my belly, still, but then his eyes focus, and he pulls back, shaking his hands. "Right. You should be okay now." He pats my hand as Zev's grip eases up, and I try to respond, but my tongue won't cooperate, and all that comes out is a senseless mumble. He laughs. "You're welcome, I'm sure. Well, that's it. You'll need to take it easy for the next three weeks or so, and no weapons training or anything until then, but after that you'll be fine. So, I'm off, but if you need anything, you know where to find me." He gets up and saunters out, whistling to himself, and I curl up in a little ball against Zev's chest, clinging to him.

"You are all right?" he asks me, so sweet, so concerned, and I nod my head, yes, of course. I don't want to give him more reasons to worry about me.

"I'm just glad we're done with it," I mumble, shifting so I fit better against him. Sensing what I'm about, he pulls me across his lap, wrapping his arms around me again. I can feel the blackness closing in again. "Zev..." I whisper, my fingers sliding into his hair as I nuzzle my face against the side of his neck.

"Hmm?"

"Will you still be here when I wake up?"

"If I am not, I assure you, it will not be by my design," he replies, and I nod, relieved. I try to say something, I want to tell him that I love him, but the blackness claims me again. 


	9. Whispers in the Dark

Two weeks since our arrival have come and gone with excruciating slowness, but I am finally strong enough that I can climb a flight of stairs without a whole lot of help. It feels good to have even that tiny amount of freedom, and so I've taken to wandering around the compound by myself, exploring. The library has been a revelation, now that I can focus on the lettering. It's amazing how many of the history books are written by Genetivi, and it makes me smile, until I find the account of our doings at the Temple of Andraste.

I've also taken to trying to hide myself in random places, because I never know when someone is going to find me and start asking questions. I'm tired of talking, tired of questions. The only ones who are able to find me with any consistency, of course, are Zev and Ponka. I'm okay with that, though, because Zev seems to know when I don't want to talk, and will just either make sure he knows where I am and leave, or sit near, and of course, Ponka doesn't ask me any questions at all.

The one thing I have been able to wrangle out of Alistair, without even a raised eyebrow, has been a blank book. Now that my hands are finally regaining some strength, I use all of it to scribble down everything I can think of from my world that I don't want to forget. At this point, I'm working on song lyrics, because I've found that I miss the arts, desperately. Once I realized that there's no Shakespeare here, it was a cascading effect. No Waterhouse, Degas, Monet, Renoir, Maxfield Parrish, Mucha, Botticelli, John Singer-Sargent, Dali, and oh, daVinci. No more Socrates, Aristotle, Plato, nor Kahlil Gibran. No Neil Gaiman, Nick Bantock, Charles deLint, Ursula LeGuin, Douglas Adams, Ray Bradbury, nor Isaac Asimov. No Art Nouveau, Art Deco, Pre Raphaelites, nor Impressionists. No Beatles, no Dead Can Dance, no Medieval Babes, Decemberists, nor The Cure, Skinny Puppy, Daft Punk, Depeche Mode, nor Tori Amos. No Beethoven, Scarlatti, Khatchaturian, Grieg, nor Rimsky-Korsakov. No Doctor Who nor Superman.

No pianos. That one made me cry when I figured it out, because one of the few good things I carried out of my childhood is the memory of my mother, classical pianist, practicing late into the night.

I have to write as much of this stuff down as I can, before I forget.

The rest of it? Everything else I miss can be reinvented here. Showers: that's a big thing. I miss showers a lot. Zev thinks I'm nuts, that I would rather bathe standing up, that I don't want to sit and soak. I've never liked a bath, though... I always feel kinda scummy when I stand up, because all I'm doing is sitting and stewing in my own dead skin cells. Yuck. Now, I'm not above washing and _then_ getting into a clean tub, because that's just relaxing, but to get into it dirty, and just lay there... Uh, no. Just give me a bucket. I'm good, thanks.

I also miss bras. I never thought I would, but I do. I hate bodices. They were fun when I only wore them sometimes, but I seriously hate them now. I'm tired of boob-smashing. I just want an underwire. I once made my own bra for a costume, though, so I remember how the pattern pieces fit together. I'm pretty sure that, once I've really got my hands back, I can make another one. Maybe I'll show Leliana a drawing, and see what she thinks. With a judicious application of small buckles for the straps, I think it could be done.

I miss my toothbrush, and deodorant. I mean, they have toothbrushes here, but... they're made like paintbrushes: from hair. Ugh, I shudder. If it weren't necessary, I'd skip it altogether. I miss refrigerators, and orange juice, and Almond Joy candy bars. I miss gum, gel pens, Sharpies, mechanical pencils, cigarettes, and my spiral-bound sketchbook. Oh man, Wikipedia and Google. Okay, so maybe not everything can be reinvented here.

I miss things about home, it's true. I miss Wanderer fiercely, and my sister Erin, and my best friend Sofia. I _don't_ miss my life.

What I am missing the most right now, however, is the sky. I have found a window in a neglected little room that faces into the courtyard. It's angled in such a way that, with the shutter open, and in a corner next to the outside wall as it is, people can't really see me if they're not standing in one, specific spot. It also has the benefit of having a nice, wide ledge, so I can sit on it and be mostly hidden from mostly everyone. It's my new favourite hiding place. The sky spreads above me, an inky blackness awash with a scatter of diamonds that are completely random, to my eye. There is nothing familiar about the constellations, and the moon is nearly four times bigger here than it is on Earth. When I was in CampFire as a little girl, we learned the thumb-print trick; the moon always looks bigger when it's on the horizon than it does when it's right above, but if you hold out your hand, it's never bigger than your thumb-print. Not so, here. I have to use three fingers to block it out.

That's fine; I mean, it's actually kind of cool that the moon is bigger here, even though it means that the tidal influence is just that much more treacherous. What really freaks me out is that I've lost my bearings. No Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Polaris, Cassiopeia, or Orion to guide me through the night. I can't point to them and say, ah, there they are, so here I am. I am adrift in a world so far from my own that it terrifies me if I think about it too much. Yet, lately, it's all I _can_ think about. There's nothing else for me to do except listen to the music that now only exists in my head, and hide. Not even the stars are a comfort to me anymore.

The low voice that sounds behind me makes me jump. "You're a hard woman to find, when you've got a mind for it, you know that?"

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. "Alistair."

"Yep. Don't sound so excited." Ah, damn. I turn, bracing my foot against the opposite sash, and look back at him. The moonlight casts a long stripe across the room, showing him leaning against the wall, arms folded over his doublet, watching me. I didn't hear him because I had been singing to myself, and of course, Ponka had no reason to growl.

"Sorry... I just-"

"You've just been avoiding me," he says, his voice quiet and serious, and I look down at my hands. He's got me dead to rights. "Why?"

The silence stretches between us as I stare at him. At last, I swallow. "That's a loaded question." I don't like how thin my voice is.

He snorts. "If you were really my family, you wouldn't be playing these games and trying to hide from me."

I grimace. "You know, I don't want to talk about how family care for each other, Alistair; that's kind of a sore subject."

"What, like leaving me behind and then going off to die? That kind of 'caring'?" His eyes are hard, and there's more than a little bitterness there, as well.

I am struck speechless by the sheer blindness of that question, and then... I just... kinda lose it. "Don't you put that on me," I snap. "You can't put that on me, when it was _your_ pride that delivered me to that roof in the first place. You couldn't have what you wanted, so _you_ decided to gamble our lives." I am quivering with a tempest of indignation I didn't know I felt toward him, and I stand up. "You couldn't lead, you said, so I led for you. You couldn't make the decisions, you said, so I did, even though you had to question me just about every step of the way. You didn't want to be _king_, you said, so _I stood up for you_ - one wild _Dalish_ in front of an entire room full of _shemlen_ nobles - and I told Anora to stuff it, because I respected your right to have the choice to live your life in peace. And then, at the last, I respected your right to choice once more, because even then, you didn't want anyone but _me_, and don't think I didn't know it!"

He is silent for a moment, and the air is thick with the agony of all the things that were left unsaid, when I turned away from him. "Is it so wrong that I love you, that I have wanted you, and only you?" There it is. That hurt tone that always says to me, 'you don't love me enough'. That expectation that constantly needs validation. That relentless pressure to strive to measure up, without actually ever being able to do anything that would fully attain that goal.

He has no idea how manipulative that tone is, nor how much he hurts me when he looks at me like that. He has no idea how many other people have used that manner with me so they can walk all over me, and make me feel guilty, while never taking responsibility for their own actions, or lack thereof.

I know he doesn't mean to be that way, but it doesn't change the fact that it still stabs me through the heart, and I lose a breath like he just punched me in the stomach. In some ways, it feels like he did just that, and I grit my teeth against it. "You really, _really_ want to have this conversation? Because I'm not certain this will lead places either one of us is going to like." I know my tone is low and a little menacing. I can't seem to help it. He's touched on a wound that goes really deep, for both of us.

Alistair's lip curls, and he pulls out another set of condescending, hurtful lines that ache with the familiarity of things my mom and her sister have said. I take a deep breath, because it's always made me want to throw myself on him and beg him to tell me that he doesn't mean it, to tell me that he cares, that he sees worth in me. "So that's how it is? Guess I shouldn't be surprised. No one can reach you, and when they try, you just slap them away. It's always a war to get any answers out of you, as though what I'm saying is some kind of attack and a threat to our friendship. I guess you really are Lily: never accepting any way other than your own, no matter who gets left behind."

This strikes me hard, as per usual, because there's always enough truth in what is said to make me twist up inside and question myself. It _is_ hard to get answers out of me sometimes, but it's just because people don't ask the right questions, and I am, by nature, a fairly private person. I bare my teeth at him and take a couple more deep breaths before I respond, so I can be at least some semblance of rational. I don't want to lose my friendship with him, because this is one of the few people in this world that I know even a little bit, who actually has some loyalty toward me and is relatively safe to be around, but I am sorely tested right now. I only keep my voice calm by sheer force of will, but I can hear the tremble in it. I hope like hell he can't.

"Fine. Allow me to enlighten you. Yes. Yes; I... cared for you, in my way, but that was a long time ago. I wanted so desperately to believe in you, to follow you, but you couldn't allow that. You pushed me forward and forced me to make all the decisions, to stand alone in front of the entire group and take all the heat from everyone for having the temerity to be an independent elven _woman_ with an opinion. I never slapped away anyone who tried to get close to me. I pushed _you_ back, because you wouldn't lead me and you wouldn't let me lean on you, either. You couldn't be my rock, only my shield. I didn't want to hide behind you, I wanted to stand _beside you_, but all you could see was that _one_ of us had to be 'the leader'. There was never any middle ground, never any room for compromise." He looks like he's going to interrupt me, and I hold up a forestalling hand. If I don't get all of this out now, I'll never say it at all.

"You say you have trouble getting straight answers out of me, but you don't ask me straight questions. You simply bring up a topic that you find difficult, and then expect me to volunteer information. Every time you asked me a direct question, I gave you a direct answer. The problem is, when you don't like my answers, you begin to question _everything_ I do, without actually offering any other viable solutions." He opens his mouth again, and I know I'm glaring at him now, but I can't take the hardness out of my eyes, even though it's breaking my heart. I respect this man. This is killing me.

"I'm not finished; take what you said you wanted. You want to know why Zev, and not you; you have all along." I don't want to say this, but he needs me to. I can tell by the slightly squarer set of his shoulders and the hardness in his jaw where he's clenching his teeth like he does when he's nervous, the tiny bit of challenge in the lines around his eyes; he's an open book to me, and he thinks he hides it so well. I take a deep breath.

"It's because he didn't judge me, not once. He never asked of me the kind of things you forced me to, and he was able to advise me without rancor if I chose my own path. He never flat-out undermined me in front of the entire group of us while calling me our leader in the same breath. He never lashed out with petty jealousies and pointed words when I was vulnerable and questioning myself. _He_ gave me a safe haven, a place to be myself without reservation, without masks. Everything was a constant battle, Alistair, because you _made_ it that way. I wanted to love you, and yes, it cut me when I had to walk away. I consider you my brother, even still, and if I were still a Warden, I'd be by your side when your Calling came, down in the Deep Roads with you, whether mine had come or not. But if you insist on continuing this conversation, we are both going to regret it, I can promise you that."

I bow my head, my hair swinging forward to cover the agonized expression on my face, and I hear him make some small surprised noise. I take another deep breath, trying to steady myself, and press my shaking hands to my thighs. "Now. If you have direct questions for me, I'm willing to hear them, and I will answer you honestly, as I always have, but if there's nothing else, then I'd... appreciate it if... if you could find some other wall to hold up, for the time being." Please, please don't keep talking. I don't want to say these things to you.

The back of his head thuds a few times on the wall, his face twisting with despair, but the silence is short-lived. "I didn't mean to hurt you or... or to make you feel that way." He sighs and I feel like shit. "Why didn't you just _tell_ me?"

Oh, honey. I tried to warn you. I shake my head, trying to hold it all in, and tuck my hands in my armpits. "Okay, so tell me: how? How could I have approached you? I know you would have listened, but would you truly have _heard_ me? You are utterly impossible to talk to when you want to be... completely unyielding. Sometimes trying to get through to you was like running full-tilt at a rock and hoping somehow it'd have a cushion before I got there. Gods know I tried, repeatedly, ceaselessly, because I cared, and because just about every step of the way, I was doing everything for _you: your_ pride, _your_ ethics, _your_ beliefs, _your_ priorities, _your_ loyalties. But I'm sorry to say, though I care about you a great deal, it wasn't you whom I was so desperately trying to reach that I actually managed to come here. I know you love me, but it wasn't _you_ who was bleeding inside so badly that I was pulled, body and soul, across that impossible divide in answer. I may have died for you, but I can't _live_ for you. Not anymore."

"You were supposed to take me up there; I was supposed to be at your side." His voice is barely above a whisper. "And I know. I know you don't live for me. I'm not that stupid."

I grit my teeth again, trying to push down the desperate, despondent frustration, and fight to stay level. "Did I not just say that I did everything for you? How was I going to waste all that effort by letting you go up there and die, hm? I knew you then, as I know you now, and I knew what you would do. And I know you're not stupid - if you recall, it was me who was always defending your intelligence, from the Korcari Wilds all the way across the length and breadth of Ferelden, up to the very gates of Denerim, endlessly, with every breath. You were meant to live; you were meant to lead. I didn't wade through the Blight with you just so you could abandon both me and the Wardens to throw yourself on the horns of the archdemon for lack of my devotion. I couldn't let you do that, not because of me. They would never have listened to some wild elf, but they listen to you, brother, don't they." This is not a question. I've seen how the other Wardens here look to him, and I've seen how he leads them.

"They would have listened to you!" Alistair argues. He pushes away from the wall and comes toward me, shaking his head. "And this?" He waves an expressive hand, taking in the entire compound. "I didn't want it. Not ever."

And there it is: it _still wasn't enough_ for him, even though I bargained for the best possible outcome for him - gave my life for it, in point of fact - just trying to give him what he wanted, what we all wanted: freedom. "And I didn't want what was thrust upon me, either!" I snap, losing it again, thinking of my horror at the way things went with Tamlen, all along the line. How I'd been forced from my clan, and how I had hated Duncan, later, when I realized that if he would have let me go after my clansman, Tamlen would have lived to be a Warden, with me. "I told you that, the morning after Ostagar, and you looked at me with that... that... Ah! That face you make, like I've just struck you through the heart! And you said, 'don't leave me to do this alone', and so I didn't. And you said, 'I can't lead, I'll get us all lost', and so you didn't. Never mind that you didn't ask _me_ whether I felt that I could lead, whether I ever felt lost or alone. I never breathed a word, because you needed me to be strong, and so I was, _for you_, right up to the very last moment."

Alistair stands over me, too close, but my back is to the window, and there's no ground to give. "I'm here now." I swallow as his hands come up slowly, trailing up the back of my arms to rest upon my shoulders. Gods, his hands, they're so big... and hot...

I sigh, even though I am trembling with the warring fear and desire of having him standing over me like this. It broke my heart to push him away, not just his, and he is testing my resolve, maybe on purpose. If I didn't have Zev here with me, Alistair would be able to corner me fairly easily, I'm pretty sure of that, and it makes me feel dirty - unfaithful! - even though I haven't done anything. Part of me _wants_ to let him kiss me, to let him be my shield, to hide behind him- but I can't. I have a stubborn streak a mile wide that won't let me just give up and stop trying to stand on my own two feet, and Alistair's faith is incredibly demanding. I can't give in; the cost is too high, and would be paid in a river of blood. I have to put an end to this.

"So am I," I say, and he cups one of my cheeks in his broad palm. I swallow again, and hurry on, forcing the words out before he has a chance to lean forward, because I can tell by the look in his eye that he's about to, and if he does, I might not pull away fast enough to save my reputation. "But- but I can't be your hero or your leader anymore. I am your family, but I will ever be your _sister_. I can't be... _that person_. I belong to another, and have for a long time; it's more true now, than ever. You know this. Poking at that wound only makes it bleed, and it hurts both of us, Alistair."

"I'm sorry," he whispers hoarsely, a bare instant before he suddenly wraps his arms around me and crushes me against his chest, tangling a hand in my hair. Good gods, he's massive! I've never touched this man, not once, in the entire time I've been here. He's been too wary of me, and I've been content to let him stay at a safe distance. I am on the verge of fighting, out of sheer self-preservation, until I realize all he is doing is hugging me, clutching me to him... just holding me. "I'm so sorry, Lily," he whispers into my hair.

"Hnnh! Stop squashing me and I'll forgive you!" I squeak.

"Sorry," he mumbles and his hold slackens, granting me breath, but he still doesn't let me go. Tentatively, I put my arms around his waist and hug him back, awkwardly laying my head against his shoulder. I am beyond relieved. He has finally accepted that I'm - basically - me, and we are past that mess. Thank the gods.

He has the height, the broad shoulders and the strong arms, handsome face and big hands - and wow, gods, he's not allowed to smell that good - and he's making my heart thud, because I fit way too well in his arms, but it's a more physical than emotional reaction. He's not who or what I want. He's so much bigger than me, it's actually intimidating, and the bolt of desire he inspires puts me on the edge of panic. I'm okay with this hug, because of what it means, but I don't want him to touch me, because it scares me how much I actually _do_. Really, he's making me ache for Zev; _his_ arms are the only place where my desire has never been shameful.

"So am I," I whisper back, trying really hard not to tremble, not to give him wrong ideas.

"Ah, family reunions; so touching, I might just shed a tear." The voice from the shadows is dry and there's a hint of steel to it. I feel bad for being relieved to hear it, but I've got a strong urge to struggle free and run to him. "Alistair, my friend you may be, but I do not share very well these days. So, kindly put a more... _appropriate_ distance between yourself and my intended. Most would not be so understanding as I."

A hint of steel? Hah; Zev's about to throw down right here, right now. Wait - 'intended'? I blink as Alistair suddenly drops me like a hot potato and steps back, turning quickly to look into the corner where my Zev has no doubt been standing the entire time. I see the flash of his eyes just a moment before he steps forward, into the strip of moonlight, neatly putting himself between me and Alistair.

I can't stand to be away from him anymore. I step to the side to put myself into Zev's peripheral vision before I come up next to him and lay my hand at the small of his back, standing just a breath behind him. "I don't think there's anything left to say tonight, Alistair... We can... Another time, yeah?" I say, my voice soft. "So... Goodnight." I hope that I can defuse this situation before Alistair says something unfortunate, and Zev feels like he needs to answer it with something sharp. Their rivalry has never been... gentle.

"Right..." Alistair stands there for a moment longer, looking at us, and I can see it in his eyes when he looks at Zev: he wants to argue, even now. He wants to try to fight for me, because rare's the man who doesn't notice when the woman in his arms is feeling desire, and there is that hint of disdain there, just a tinge, that tells me it's not Zev's imagination, the way Alistair judges him. "Goodnight then, Lily." It seems he knows that this war is lost in spite of how he can affect me, and he shows it when he simply ducks his head under the lintel and exits the room, leaving us alone in the dark.

I drop my head onto Zev's shoulder, suddenly weary beyond measure. "That took more out of me than it had any right to," I mutter. "Talking shouldn't make me so tired."

His arm encircles my waist, bearing me up as I sway. "Speaking with emotion requires great energy when you mean it, when the subject is important to you, when you strive to not say things that cannot be unheard, no matter how they fight to fall from the tip of your tongue." Oh, how he reads me so well, it tugs a smile from me. "The things you left unsaid are best kept that way, for even still, you got your point across." He turns to wrap his other arm around me, and I lean against him gratefully, putting my own arms around his shoulders, all the tension draining away. "Any further testing on his part will require it to be my turn to get the _point_ across. It will go far less pleasantly for him with me than it did with you."

I laugh softly, even though I know he's serious, because he echoes my earlier surmise almost perfectly. I'm actually starting to feel a little unsteady, and suddenly our room seems pretty far away. "I know; I was trying to avoid that. I hope he believes me this time, I really do, because I don't know what else I could say." I sway again, and the room goes dark on me. "Mmh... Zev, why'd you close the shutters?" I mumble. I only realize dimly that he's still got both arms around me, and so it couldn't have been him, before the blackness steals over me once more.

I hate that I'm still randomly passing out. At least this time I was with Zev when it happened; the last time, apparently, I was found sprawled on the floor in the library. I take comfort in the fact that it was two days ago. Hopefully, by the end of the month, I'll be fine.

Something else that has drastically changed are my dreams. The Fade is a very real place, and it's been extremely hard to get used to.

For instance, ever since I was a little girl, I've had serial dreams about this boy, Nolan. He's always been just a little bit older than me so, in a sense, we grew up together. I figured he was just my imagination, my subconscious or something. We would have wild adventures together, but I was never lucid. Mostly, these dreams string together to make a kind of internal logic, and there's a whole story that goes along with them. Once I got here, however, I started to dream lucidly, and that's when Nolan changed. He stopped me, the first time I met him again, and looked at me strangely. He said, "You're solid. I can't protect you if you're solid," and I didn't understand.

It took me over a month to realize that the dreams I have here are different. Dream Walking is truly a literal thing, in this place. So I've set off in search of the places that I know to be locations I dream myself to regularly; since it won't be unusual to see me there, I may not attract any unwanted attention. I have found the representation of my grandmother's house, and I go there a lot. I always did before, but this time it's on purpose, and I know where I am. I stay there anyway, because it's a connection to her. Her shade sometimes wanders through, but she doesn't really see me. I meet Nolan sometimes, but I scare him right now, and he is avoiding me, which makes me sad.

I am brooding, walking along the beach that stretches impossibly between my own home and my grandmother's - two places that are so far apart, they only share the same body of water metaphorically - when I encounter Sofia. She's kneeling, writing in the sand, but the waves keep washing it away. As I draw closer, I realize that she's crying, and her normally brilliantly colored hair has faded to a washed out blond for lack of upkeep. I stand behind her, and see that she's trying to write my name, but every time she gets half-way there, the water fills it in again.

I kneel in the sand next to her and put my arm around her shoulders. "Sofia."

She looks up at me suddenly. "Lily, Lily, we're trying to find you," she says, fat tears running down her face, and I feel horrible. "I'll make him pay. I know what he did; I'll make him pay." She takes my face in her hands, her eyes finally focus on me completely, and she presses her forehead to mine. "He's not going to get away with it, Lily, I promise you."

This makes me cry, too, and I put my arms around her. "Sofia, tell Erin I love her, and I love you, too. I'm okay, I swear; I'm okay, I'm happy. Please don't cry, don't cry for me. I can't come home, but you can always meet me here. I'll be here, Sofia. Just meet me on the beach. I'll always find you on the beach."

"On the beach," Sofia echoes, struggling to stay focused on me, but I can feel her fading. "Lily, Lily, I tried so hard; I'm sorry, I tried..." The despair I feel at how I've crushed the people I left behind leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, and eventually drives me from sleep.

It's still dark outside when I wake in our bed, but it has that hazy pre-dawn quality about it. I turn my head to see a rare sight: Zev laying next to me, completely sacked out. He looks so different in sleep, so unguarded. The stress-lines in his face have relaxed almost to non-existence, and he looks so much younger for it. Not for the first time, I wonder how much of an age-gap there really is between us, if any. He always seems so much older than me, but then, in moments like this, he doesn't. Not that it would make any difference, but I wonder.

Caught woolgathering, I am completely surprised when the corner of his mouth quirks up, and he says, "You are staring, _cara_," without even opening his eyes. I laugh quietly as he pulls me closer, curling into the warmth of his chest and tucking my head under his chin.

"Mmh, I'm sorry; I didn't mean to wake you," I say. My hand wanders up his chest and over his shoulder, my fingers hungry for the sweep of his jaw and the thick tangle of his hair. His heart beats steadily under my ear, and I close my eyes, listening intently. This, this sound is the thread by which my own life hangs. Even after ten weeks here, I still don't quite believe that I really _am_ here. I keep thinking I'll wake up, that something will happen and it'll all just dissolve away, or that I'll make some kind of misstep, and alienate everyone, that it'll suddenly be revealed I'm not who I say I am. That would be the absolute end of me. It seems crazy to have that worry - for how could I not be myself? - and yet I know that I'm not actually Lily Mahariel, either. There are things she knew that I don't, and I keep waiting for someone to ask me something I can't answer.

I keep waiting for someone or something to take it all away, for the time when reality descends, one way or another, and everything goes wrong, for the moment when someone says to me, hey, there's been a mistake, this isn't your life, you need to give it back now. I feel like I'm on a highwire with a pyramid of plates balanced on the end of a broom: one false move, and it all comes crashing down. "Zev-" I start, all the fear and the anguish welling up in me, but there's nothing I can say. I can't afford my weaknesses. He needs me to be his Lily, strong and proud and true, fierce and righteous and brave. I have to stand beside him; I can't let him down, not ever.

"Mmmh?" His voice vibrates against my cheek as his hand absently runs through my hair, and I shake my head, trying to swallow everything I can't confess. So I cling to him instead, as the sobs rock through me, squeezing my eyes shut so they won't leak. I don't have a right to this; we're in this mess because of me in the first place. I can feel his surprise as I suddenly press against him, shaking, but it is only an instant before his arms encircle me, folding me in the illusion of safety, and I want so desperately to believe in me the way he does. "_Cara_?" I can hear the alarm edging into his voice and I hate myself for it, but I can only shake my head as I am wracked with shudders that I can't fully repress. His lips press to my hair, and he crushes me close. I'm both grateful for it and shamed by it. "Shh... _dolcezza_, tell me what is wrong. I am here..."

I shake my head again, choking on it, because there's nothing I can say. "Nothing... I- It's not important."

There's only so much evading I can do, though, and here, now, trapped in the bed with him, he's not going to let me escape so easily. "Ah, _cara_, if it is nothing, why such tears?" His voice is gentle and soft as his hands trail up and down my back. "If it was no matter, then you would not cry so. Tell me _amora_, let me share in what has caused you pain, as you have so often given me the same gift."

I scrunch up my eyes, clutching myself to him as close as I can get, but a fresh flood of tears pours out anyway. I hate crying, and I try to hide my face against his shoulder, even though I know he can feel the wetness all over his chest. I hate being weak, but my defences are down too much to try and hold out, not against him. It's breaking me. "It- I- They think he murdered me. She was writing my name in the sand, but the waves kept washing it away," I stutter, completely incoherent, making no sense at all, I know, but there's nothing else I can force out of my mouth.

"Ah..." I feel him draw a deep breath and slowly release it. "I must admit, _amora_, that I have spared little thought for those you left behind." He picks his words carefully as he continues to stroke my stupidly crying self. "Sometimes I thought that there would be no one to leave behind, as if you had simply sprung up, no matter the weight of proof to the contrary in things like your clothes, the words you choose, the songs you sing to yourself when you think no one is listening, the things you have said in your sleep. Others..." He trails off, pressing his lips to my forehead, and gives me another hard squeeze. "Other times... I have feared that you would miss it, that you had left many behind who loved you, and I felt... incredibly selfish. I've no wish to share you with anyone. But..."

A callused thumb rubs over my wet cheek, and I can smell his sleepy breath. "But it would be wrong for me to believe for one moment that you did not have others who would be hurt by your absence. It is just... it is just that my pain was too great to care. I must... admit that this is still true, to some degree. Their pain means nothing to me personally, but for what it causes you." Zev is quiet, collecting his thoughts for several minutes while I strangle on the hiccups that keep trying to break free.

"This woman, she was close to you, her pain, it... hurts you. Her belief you have been murdered, it bears weight. I may not know her, but the fact that she cares makes me like her. She is, at the least, someone who cares for you very much, to reach you in such a way, so in this, it is a good thing. But this... other man, whom they think has murdered you, is there a reason they would think such a thing?" He says it so blandly that I can tell, even though I'm a total wreck right now, he's trying to suss out the importance that Tommy bears in my life. Scratch that: _bore_. "Is he not someone who should mourn you, as well?"

His tone has gone utterly blank, and I wonder if it might be jealousy or if he's putting together all the pieces of the puzzle. The puzzle of what makes me wake up screaming, and the pieces that Anders handed him on a silver fucking platter by telling him about 'old damage'. Several deep breaths later, I'm finally able to form a full sentence.

"Uh... maybe. If he does, I don't fucking care." I wince, realizing I've used that word again, but it just kind of fell out of my mouth. "He... I didn't mean to drown myself - it was dark, there was a storm, and I didn't realize how close the waves had got to me until it was too late - but... it was a kinder fate than what awaited me at _his_ tender mercies. Particularly after he found out about you." Sad to say, that's the gods' honest truth. The kiss I'd get when initiating 'let's go to the tent' made Tommy lose his shit when he saw it. Anyone listening from the outside would have come to the conclusion that I had been caught _in flagrante delicto_ with another man. "I had to hide my journal and the..." Game. CD. Program files. Save-games. "...key to Thedas from him." Close enough. "I was on the beach to get away from _him_, because he finally got what he wanted when that door slammed on me, even though he didn't quite know it, and I couldn't go back to face him because I felt so... lost... He would have done anything to keep us apart. He threatened me, when we were on our way to the Brecilian Forest, so I got another copy of the key, to give him something to destroy."

Seriously. At the time, I thought to myself, "What does it matter? It's just a game...", and I almost went ahead and actually turned it in, to save myself the inevitable blow-up when Tommy found the game again. At the last moment, just as I was putting it into my bag, I thought of a scene I had written for Zev and me, about simply sharing coffee, sitting by the fire and laughing; I closed my eyes and I could see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, I could almost smell the wood smoke and leather, and I just couldn't do it. I went down to GameStop, bought a second copy of the game, and then the next night, when Tommy threatened to break the puzzle box Papa had brought back from Japan after WWII, I gave the original to him. I could not believe how much he enjoyed snapping that disk in half, believing that he'd taken something vital from me. As much anguish as it would have caused me at the time, little did I know, he very nearly had. I'd thought myself miserable and pathetic...

"Tch. Feh." That single growl holds a wealth of contempt, more than any insults, shouts of rage, or offers of violence on my behalf. It is weighted with an eloquence of disgust that couldn't quite be expressed so fully in any other way. "And this woman, she will ensure some good of your absence is done, by making an example of this... _man_? She is this good of a friend, yes?" It's clear he only uses 'man' as a denotation of gender.

"I didn't have many, not really. There's only one other: my sister. They're both my sisters, really. Erin and Sofia. They'd never let it go."

"Good." He presses another kiss to my forehead.

"I... I don't like to bring up where I've come from, because I never wanted you to feel like... I don't know, like I regret leaving." I take a deep breath. "I've never been more terrified in my life; I'm frightened of everything." Shit, I didn't mean to say that. Weakness! "Uh... The fact is... I wasn't a warrior... I, uh... I'm just a carpenter. I do miss some things, but... I don't miss my life there; it was bleak. I'm trying not to feel like it's that way everywhere."

"Did you fear this would make me think less of you? Tch, _cara_, do not discredit yourself," he scoffs, making me feel sheepish. "Do not dishonour me either, for a warrior cannot be so full time, at least not usually. Do you think that I would not care for you as much for not having been bathed in blood from sunup to sundown? Tch. 'Just a carpenter', you say, as though this is not of value. People like Alistair, Leliana, and myself exist so that there _can_ be carpenters, bakers, farmers, and all manner of other life paths." He tangles his fingers in my hair, massaging my head, and I just practically collapse against him with a little groan, it feels so good. How am I holding tension in my _scalp_? "Life is bleak for many, but that does not mean it is not worth living, not when there are those who love you or are waiting to discover you so that you can love them, and they can love you."

Role reversal. Of course; hadn't I pretty much said the very same thing to him? He's too clever for me by half. "I feel so weak... I hate that," I mumble.

His hand eventually stills, and he is silent so long I am beginning to think he may have fallen back asleep. "You are not weak; it takes strength to let those who care for you be there to bear you up. I wish to be here for you, as you have been for me. Thank you for telling me these things, _amora_."

It's my turn to be silent and introspective for a time, but this time I know he's not asleep, as he absently pulls apart tangles in my hair, one-handed. "Zev-" I take a deep breath. "Do... Do you still have that painted sky ball I gave you? I'm lost without the stars. They're all different." If I can just get some kind of bearing, some grip on where I am, maybe I won't feel so lost.

"Of course; it has always been in my pack. Not many will be out at the moment, as the sun is rising, but tonight - ah, _amora_," he says with a theatrical sigh that makes me smile, "I shall give you the stars."

Who doesn't want to hear _that_?


	10. The High Cost of Living

I wake up when I hear the door slam. Last thing I knew, I was sitting in the library, reading. I'm in bed though, which means someone found me passed out. Again. Dammit. At least it's been four days now since the incident with Alistair. The light has a thin quality to it, and by the slant of the shaft coming in through the window, I'd say we've got about an hour or two before sundown. Damn; I've been out for hours. I thought I'd be in a full body cast? Hah. I'd probably be _dead_. Again.

Uhoh. That's two. I wonder if they have the law of three here. I shiver.

I look around, but there's nobody with me. Wait, that's weird. Not even Ponka is here. Then I realize that everything is absolutely silent. A sudden dread fills my stomach, and I swallow. I hear another door slam, this time from the opposite end of the hallway, and leap out of the bed, looking around for something to use as a weapon. I don't see anything, but on instinct I shove my hand under the pillow and find a dagger. I kiss the pommel, grateful that my man is both paranoid and prepared, and then struggle quickly into my breeches.

Footsteps pass in the hallway, too quiet for my liking, fleet and light. I flatten myself against the wall and crack the door open to take a look at the person's back, and have a horribly paralyzing moment of fear at the sight of Leliana, armour on, running toward the courtyard with her bow over her shoulder and a splatter of blood on her thigh. Fuck me. I'm toast.

I run after her.

'Cause I'm stupid like that.

Whatever, I figure my chances are better next to her than they are alone. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye as I come out of the hallway, and I swiftly join her behind the pillar she is looking carefully around the side of. Slowly, she draws an arrow from the quiver on her back, pulling her bow forward just a bit. "I never liked this part," she murmurs, taking careful sight. I look just in time to see a man who appears to be an ordinary servant sprout an arrow through the throat and drop like a broken puppet. My heart stops and my hands go cold, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. I just watched this woman kill a man without flinching. What the fuck is going on?

Before I have time to contemplate my horror any further, a howl breaks the unnatural silence, and my head turns in that direction, fast as a whip. "Ponka."

"That sounded like the kitchen," Leliana says, already in motion. I follow her, as quietly as I can, but it turns out to not be necessary. Before we even reach the hallway, I can hear my dog growling viciously like he's ripping something apart with his teeth, and people's grunts as they are locked in a struggle, the sound of furniture being forcibly shoved around, breaking pottery, and then a flash of light and a thunderclap so loud it makes my ears ring. Leliana and I reach the kitchen door in time to see Alistair win the fight for control over a dagger with the maid who has been changing our sheets. He's about to pull back, to try and say something, but she grabs his wrist and impales herself, catching herself in the lung; when she coughs, blood comes out of her mouth, and she spits on him, grinning like a madwoman. Anders has been busy electrocuting a man who falls backwards onto the floor, smoking. Seeing what Alistair had been about, he begins chanting, but she's too quick, and she drops suddenly, causing the dagger to slice straight up through everything inside.

Anders casts at her anyway, but she doesn't stir. He curses under his breath, too quietly for me to hear, and I look around the room to see three other dead servants, one of whom Ponka is wiping his muzzle on. "Maker's balls!" Alistair growls, and I put my hand over my mouth, watching the blood pool slowly widen beneath the woman on the floor in a hazy kind of shock. Her glazed eyes stare forever in my direction, seeing nothing, and my stomach rolls. He looks up sharply, murder in his eyes, sees me, and freezes. The way the mask suddenly drops away makes my blood run cold.

I swallow hard as the thick, coppery scent of blood fills my nose and try to focus. "Uh... Why are we killing the servants?" I'm pretty proud of myself; my voice doesn't waver at all.

Alistair gives the dead people a hard look, his gaze sweeping around the room, and I am intimidated by the naked steel in his eyes when they finally meet mine again. He's so disarming most of the time, I forget that he's a soldier, too. "The seneschal was a Crow, along with many of the servants. I'm not sure why the sudden attack. Where's Zevran? I'm sure he could-"

This question just about strikes me dead where I stand, and Alistair's face changes in a hot instant, transforming with alarm and sympathy. Behind me, Leliana says, "I'll go look for him," and dashes off before I can gather breath to respond. We all know that she's not going to find him; I can see it in their eyes as I glance back and forth between Alistair and Anders. Alistair quickly crosses the room and reaches toward me, and I take his hand, letting him put an arm around my shoulders, because I'm terrified out of my mind. Ponka comes over to me and bumps my leg with his big head, a tiny whine escaping his throat. Even though this dog is covered in blood, same as this man, and there is blood and dead people all over the floor, somehow their presence is comforting to me, all the same.

"Alistair?" My voice is thin, and I don't like it, but there's not much time. They're literally going to kill him. I have to do something. I can't just stand here. I have to find him. I have to pick up the pieces of a life that isn't really mine. Oh gods. "Where... I need my gear. Where's my trunk?"

Anders' eyebrows go up with alarm, and he shakes his head. "Whoa, wait a minute now, you still need at least another two weeks before-" He stops abruptly and rocks back just a tiny bit as I swing my gaze toward him. I have no idea what my face might look like right now, but I am amazed at the bone-numbing calm that has washed over me.

"I don't _have_ two weeks," I say, my voice perfectly reasonable and quiet, as though we are simply discussing what to eat for dinner. There is so much adrenaline going through me, everything feels hazy and dreamlike, while being sharply in visual focus. "They've got him _now_." I'm not going to think about this. No time for thinking, only for action.

"We'll go after him, don't worry" Alistair says, squeezing my hand, and I get the distinct impression he means him and Anders. "It'll be okay, Lily." I don't want platitudes, I want to take action, and it's not happening fast enough. Every moment that we waste is another moment that my man is in their hands, and at their mercy.

"He's not here," Leliana says, appearing behind me again, and I nod.

"I need my armour, Alistair," I tell him again, my voice level.

He hesitates, and there it is: the reason I couldn't stay with him. He's trying to be my shield, when I want to stand beside him. I have no problem with him being the one who rushes forward in battle; that's his job, and he's good at it. In that regard, I am grateful for him, but he's trying to stop me from going _at all_; he just doesn't understand: I don't need to be _sheltered_. I never have. I have just enough time to see him register that his hesitation hurt me - and not understand why - before Leliana seizes my free hand, pulls me out of Alistair's grasp, and rushes back out of the kitchen at a dead run.

I careen after her, just trying to keep up. She drags me into one of Alistair's rooms, and there it is, my trunk, standing in the corner, looking perfectly innocent. It isn't. She throws it open, rummaging through it quickly, and a hundred things of mine that never belonged to me flash past my eyes. She hands me a small box that jingles, and I open it to find two rings and an amulet. One ring, shaped like a key - Key to the City - and the other made of wood and etched with vines. The Harvest Festival ring. Holy crap. I put them on and pick up the amulet. It's got a symbol stamped on one side, and a highly-polished back, like a mirror. As I look at it, it seems to catch the light, playing a trick on me. I jump, making a small sound of surprise, and Leliana glances at me out of the corner of her eye, but says nothing. I saw a man, a blond-haired man with blue eyes and tattoos on his face. He was looking at me, just for a second, and his eyes were haunted. Oh my gods. Tamlen? This... this must be the amulet from Andraste's temple. Everyone looks kinda different when they're not pixels.

I slip it on over my head while Leliana shakes out and unbuckles a set of scale. I gasp and shiver as the magic courses through me, making me stronger. It is the strangest feeling ever. I don't like it. I feel... almost feverish. Wade's armour is spotless, undoubtedly repaired since Drakon. "Wait, where's _my_ armour?"

She pauses and looks up at me. "This _is_ your armour," she says, blinking.

"Yes, technically, but I really only wore _that_ suit to protect against the archdemon's fire," I say quickly. "It's heavier, and noisy. I need my Shadow of the Empire." Immediately, she turns and begins digging again, tossing me a gambeson. I struggle into it, having to adjust the laces around the waist for the fact that I'm not all clean lines and hard muscle. She gives me a pair of tall, supple leather boots with some kind of sigil embossed on them, and a pair of dark crimson gloves, the colour of spilt blood, that almost look like patent leather, they're so shiny. I stare at them, startled again, even as I am putting them on and ditching my breeches. Gods bless my obsessive man; his inability to let go just might save us both. Still, this is madness. There's no poultice button here. I'm going to get myself killed.

I flex my hands as they begin to feel stronger, and start bouncing on my toes without really meaning to. I feel so _light_, and _fast_. Leliana laughs, catching me out of the corner of her eye, and I blink. "What?" I ask, as she finally holds up the armour I want.

"You. You still bounce," she says, shaking her head.

I feel my mouth drop open in surprise as she tugs the armour onto me, buckling down the sides and helping me adjust the pauldrons. I never even thought about it, how everything giving me dex and stamina boosts would make me feel. My other self must have been more me than I thought, because I certainly didn't write about this. She digs around, finding the right pieces to match it that go on my arms and legs, and then that's it, I'm dressed, and she's handing me a leather helmet. I see runes on the inside of it, just around the brow, and they flash as I settle it on my head. I blink, and it's like my mind suddenly rockets off. I can see a million possibilities, and I have to fight not to get distracted, for a moment. I spread my arms out, trying to steady myself, and I feel her hand come down on my upper arm.

"All right?" she asks, and I nod.

"Yeah, just... yeah. Magic," I stutter, shaking my head to try and clear it.

Leliana turns around again and puts two daggers in my hands, and they immediately activate. The keris blade begins to snow, the other bursts into flame, and I very nearly drop them. My Thorn of the Dead Gods, and Duncan's dagger. In my fucking hands. Either she doesn't notice, or ignores my bemusement as she wraps a length of steel blue, embroidered fabric around my waist. The embroidery forms words; it almost looks like German, by way of Arabic. It's weird. I sheath my daggers at my hips as I hear footfalls in the hallway, and the door opens, revealing Alistair and Anders, also dressed for battle. Alistair stops dead and stares at me.

"What?" I ask, but he just shakes his head, eyes still wide. Ah, the helmet: it covers everything that would've been inked. I suddenly look like myself, to him. I try to smile for him, but it hurts, and it comes out more grimace than anything. "Let's just go." I need to move. If I think about this too much, I'm not going to get anywhere. I need to separate myself out. I need to put myself in Falcon's headspace, because it's the street kid in me who is going to live through this day, who's going to have the guts to keep moving forward, when the adult me is terrified out of her gourd.

"Okay, but where? We don't know where they're taking him," Alistair protests, and I sigh, shaking my head. He's so intelligent and generally perceptive, I can't believe the things he just doesn't think of.

"Ponka, we have to find him," I say, and my mabari barks once, sharp and decisive. He immediately turns and heads back toward our room. From there, he leads us quickly up the stairs to the third floor, and then to the window of a small room reserved for servants. We lose his trail in the road below, and it takes us far, far too long - over an hour while it slowly gets dark; they must have taken Ponka into account, as the street positively reeks of liquorice - to figure out that they went along the roofs, finally touching down several blocks away, only to disappear inside a shop about a quarter mile from there. We stand in an alley nearby, looking across the street at our destination while Ponka sits outside it, apparently completely unconcerned. "Ah, great. Either they're a front for a transportation network, or he's there," I say, trying to be clinical, trying not to panic.

"I'll go in," Leliana offers, taking off her cap and running her fingers through her hair. She offers me the most winning smile, coupled with her innocent eyes, and it's so believable, I almost fall for it myself. She saunters along like she hasn't a care in the world, meandering down the edge of the street, and then she stops, eyeing something in the window. She wavers, looking like she might not decide to go in, and finally turns, pushing open the curtain that covers the doorway.

I am struck by a sudden wave of vertigo, and reel, my hands reaching out for purchase. One lands on the wall, and the other on Alistair's arm, as another pair of hands steady me from behind. I shake my head, trying to clear my vision, and Anders hisses. "Too much, too soon," he says. A wave of magic washes over me and I feel stronger, but it does absolutely nothing for the dizziness. It passes within a few moments, all by itself.

After a short time, Leliana comes back to us, and we huddle in the shadows, conferring. "There is a tunnel under the floor in there; I could feel it. There's a trap door behind the curtain, in back of the counter. There are only three of them. If we are quick, we could get in there without tripping any alarms," she says, and I nod, catching Alistair doing the same out of the corner of my eye.

I creep to the mouth of the alley, Leliana right next to me, and we look up and down the darkened street, everything cast in shades of indigo from the dying rays of the sun, but there is no one apparent. "It's now or never," I whisper, and she laughs quietly. Before she can say anything else, before I can have a chance to second-guess myself - or come to my fucking senses! - I just stroll out into the road and join Ponka. I scratch the top of his head as he stands up. "_El dar'nan tan'shemlen in'an_(1)," I tell him quietly, distracted as I check the road again for passersby or watching eyes. He bumps his head against my hip, ready, and as my friends reach us, I take a deep breath.

_Ares, thou paragon of victory, guide my blades tonight; Hermes and Aphrodite, make swift my feet and protect us, oh gods please, long enough for us to survive this mess._

How did I end up being the leader again? Two rogues, a tank, and a mage. Ah, just like old times.

I push the curtain aside and walk in like I own the place. The shop is small, lit by lamps, and is clearly just about to close for the day. The shop keeper is sweeping the floor in the centre of the room. I don't see anyone else yet. He looks up and shakes his head. "No-" he begins, but I smile at him and cut him off.

"Hi!" I say, cheerfully. "I'm absolutely desperate for some..." I look around the shop, belatedly trying to figure out what they sell, and my eye lands on a pile of candles. "...candles!"

He sighs and shakes his head, speaking to me with a very heavy accent. "Come back tomorrow. Closing now. Long day, yes?"

"Awww..." I pout, going closer to the man. "Please? Can't I be your last customer of the day?" I ask, holding out my hands. He sighs again and turns his head, closing his eyes and tipping his face downward in resignation and irritation. Taking advantage of his moment of inattention, I draw my Thorn and point it at his face before he has time to react. Man, I'm so much faster! He starts back, but I take a step toward him, watching the snow fall on his arm. "I'm pretty sure you've got something here that I want," I tell him.

"Marco!" he shouts, and another man appears from behind a curtain in the doorway behind the main counter. I see his hands begin to glow, and in my moment of distraction, the man in front of me has had a chance to arm himself with a dagger of his own. I step back quickly, drawing Duncan's dagger, and it bursts into flame, bathing the room in odd light. I can hear Anders chanting behind me, and I know I've got backup, so I don't take my eyes off this guy, even though I can hear Alistair behind me, knocking someone over. The guy makes a feint that I parry easily, testing my defences, and I turn sideways, making myself a smaller target. Okay. Can't pull my punches, here. This guy needs to drop, and quickly, because we haven't got time to fuck around. I take a deep breath, struggling to remember the way Zev tried to teach me to move, those two months on the ship.

As the guy makes a third attempt to suss me out, I simply lunge forward, dropping low to get under his blades, making a hot strike against the inside of his thigh, and a cold one straight into his stomach. He screams as he catches fire, stumbling backwards, until his caster sends something his way, suddenly quenching it. He's wary of me, now, and gets me circling. This is scary; he should be writhing on the floor, bleeding out. When I go for him this time, though, he is ready for me, and as I push his blade out of the way, he snaps his foot forward, sweeping my leg out from under me. I roll, but it's awkward, and I smash into a table. There's not enough room in here!

Everything on the table goes crashing to the floor behind me, spilling lamp oil all over the floor, by the smell of it. I try to get to my feet, pulling my flaming blade away from the spreading pool behind me. Before I can regain my balance, the man is on me, and he kicks me in the side, sending me to my knees again. Ponka leaps on him with a snarl, knocking the man flat, and before the guy can bring his knife around, my mabari simply rips out his throat. He spits on the floor - something I've never seen a dog do - and sneezes on the guy, splattering him with blood.

Ooh, I'm not gonna throw up. I'm not. There is a gurgle from behind me, and I turn to see a man falling off Alistair's blade. The mage is dead; Anders is already taking the guy's lyrium. Leliana calls from behind the curtain, "In here!"

I dash over, throwing it aside so hard that it rips, the frost from my Thorn riming it with ice, trying to focus on the now so that I can hopefully expunge the image of the man my dog just killed. _Got a long way to go, bitch; suck it up,_ I tell myself sternly. Leliana is tugging on a ring in the floor that is attached to a stone slab. "A little help, here?" she grunts.

"Of course," Alistair says, and I move further into the room to give him space. He pulls it open for her, so easily it's kinda impressive. A stairway is revealed, and Alistair takes the lead, heading down it without hesitation. I let Leliana go in after him; Anders and Ponka follow me. Half-way down, my vision abruptly blacks out, and I feel this horrible wave of fatigue as I suddenly can't draw a breath.

Stumbling, I crash into the wall, and Anders says my name with more than a little alarm as he wraps an arm around my waist to keep me from tumbling ass-over-teakettle down the stairs. As soon as it happens, it's gone, and I shake my head. He shines his cold light on me, and shakes his own head. "I don't see anything," he says, confused.

"I'm okay now. Let's go." There's nothing else we can do. I don't have time to be weak, and if there's nothing wrong, there's nothing wrong. The stairs let out into a long hallway, and I hasten after my friends as Anders curses under his breath again. "I know - I'm stubborn," I supply, coming up on a corner. The passageway twists and turns, and has more than one branch, so Ponka takes the lead, nose to the ground. We come to an intersection, and, incredibly, my mabari doesn't know which way to go. He trots back and forth, following two trails.

"He can't have gone in two directions," Alistair protests, and I pale. He could if he wasn't whole. I look around, but there's no blood on the floor. It can't have been like that. I refuse to believe it.

"Maybe they took his clothes or something," I say, trying not to freak out, trying not to worry about how unbearably long everything is taking. "Ponka, pick a direction and run down there, see if the trail goes cold."

My dog sets off at a run, and comes back moments later, going down the other hall. There's a muffled bark from that way, and so I go after him. Alistair beats me to the passage, forging on ahead of me in the flickering, uncertain light of my flaming dagger. Beats a torch; no smoke in my face, I think distractedly. We follow Ponka to another set of stairs, and Leliana takes point this time, studying the floor carefully. After a moment, she kneels down and blows on a patch of paint near the base of the wall, and I see a glowing rune there. She sighs and breaks it by prying it out with the tip of a small knife she pulls out of her boot. There's a flash, but nothing more. "Fire trap," she says, moving forward again.

At the top of the stairs, she presses her ear to the door, listening. After a moment, she makes a complicated series of hand gestures that I really don't understand, but I think she's trying to say that there are five men in there. Why didn't I take the time to actually figure out what our battle-speak would look like? Now I don't know what she's saying, when I really need to. Alistair nods grimly and pushes to the front. Taking a deep breath, he bursts through the doorway, Leliana and Ponka hot on his heels. I let Anders pass me and bring up the rear, glad for it when an explosion of fire heats my face. As the smoke clears, I see Alistair picking himself up off the ground, but there's no time for anything else. Ponka is growling somewhere nearby, and Anders is trading fire with a mage across the room.

I dash along the wall, looking about the room wildly, and see several men converging on Leliana; she is backing up, her bow flexing as she tries to sink arrows into all of them. I rush forward and body-check the guy on the outside, pushing him back from her and bringing his focus on me. He's tall and ugly, even disregarding the scar that twists half his face, with a wicked-looking mace in his hand. That's a skull-crusher if I've ever seen one. He swings at me, and I barely move out of the way in time.

This guy is not like the shop-keeper. This is a man who knows what he's doing, and as I try to parry, he brings that thing down right on the side of my thigh. I scream as white-hot agony blooms in my leg, stumbling, and going down. He's not going to give me time to recover. He is on me in an instant, his knee in my stomach, but the armour protects me from being squashed too badly. The helmet I have on, however, is not going to stop that mace from breaking my face, so I whip my Thorn up, just in time to stop its downward descent. He's stronger than me, though, and he's blocking my other arm from movement.

I struggle, and finally realize that I don't have to be able to stab the guy to set him on fire. I lay the flat of my blade across his ass and he screams, suddenly jumping off of me and backing up. I roll to the side as his mace comes crashing down right where my shoulder was, leaving a dent in the floor. My leg is killing me. It doesn't feel broken, which is a fucking miracle, but it doesn't want to support my weight, either. He grins, nasty and feral as he circles me, trying to get me to shift my stance. There is a bright flash of light, and I see the caster in the corner, over the guy's shoulder, suddenly look at his hands in surprise, a moment before a big rock takes him full in the chest, knocking him on his back.

The guy with the mace takes advantage of my wandering focus - I've got to stop doing that! - and presses forward again, swinging at me. He feints low, twisting it and coming up high before I can get my dagger up to block, and catches me straight under the chin, sending me sprawling with stars in my eyes. A dark blur over me has me crossing my daggers in front of my face, stopping the mace's descent again, so close that I can feel the heat and ice on my skin. The guy is on top of me again, and I flail, but he brings his fist around and punches my arm, making my elbow give out. My defence slips as my Thorn drops, and he draws back the mace for another swing, but I whip my arm forward and shove the cold point straight into his armpit. The mace drops from his hand as he screams, and I drive it home, up to the hilt.

I buck him off as he falls to the side, his arm awkwardly folding around the frozen wound as I pull the blade out. I roll over, putting myself on top of him, and hold the point under his chin. "_Halam sahlin! Dar'an emma_ Zevran? (2)" I yell at him, but he just laughs.

"_È morto_," the guy says with a sadistic, smug grin. 'Mort' is the Latin root of so many words. 'Mortality'. 'Morbid'. 'Mortuary'. 'Murder'. 'Muerte', in Spanish, for 'death'. All of them deal with life's absence, and the very idea of such a thing happening to us after all that we've come through just to be here makes my stomach turn. I've shoved the blade straight through his jaw, pinning his lying tongue to the roof of his mouth, before I even know what I'm about.

The room is quiet, and I realize that my question and his answer have been heard when Leliana says, "Did he just say that Zevran is dead?" This is also the moment when I realize I spoke to the guy in Elvish, and I wonder how many times I've done that tonight. No, don't think; don't think, just _do_.

I stand up again, as a white wave expands through the room like a smoke ring, washing me with healing and making the pain in my leg fade. I wipe my dagger off on the guy's shirt. "He did." I look up at her, feeling like I just swallowed a belly full of lead. "He's lying." Leliana nods, Anders looks at Alistair, confused and a little doubtful, and Alistair just looks sad, like he's thinking we're all about futility tonight. "Let's go."

There are three doors in this room, but Ponka goes straight for one of them, and I follow. The hallway behind it is deserted, which is a good sign; the struggle in the room we just left might go unnoticed for a while. We pass several doors as Ponka moves along quickly, nose to the floor. Down another set of stairs, we are met by another large group of people who materialize out of the shadows.

This battle is so long, and so bloody, I lose count of how many times I get stabbed, beaten, knocked to the floor and crushed, thrown into the wall, and punched in the face. These people are so hard to keep track of; they are quick, and can melt in and out of the shadows so easily that I would say it's impossible, if it weren't for the fact that I know I'm in a magical world. Waves of magic wash over me again and again, just enough to keep me on my feet, despite the taste of blood in my mouth, despite the protest of my barely-healed body. It's a whole new level of hell. I'm stabbed over and over again, blow after blow that has me coughing up my own blood, splinters of white-hot agony, washed away just like they'd never been there, leaving echoes behind. Moment by moment, I should be dead, over and over again, and I go numb in the rise and fall of the blades, in the turns and parries of the dance. Even with all the magical support, my joints feel wobbly and strained by the time the last of them fall, and I notice I'm covered in blood.

I look around the room, and see there's one by Alistair that isn't quite dead yet. I stride over to him and grab him up by the shirt, asking him the same question - in English this time - and getting the same answer. I toss him down, disgusted. "You're fucking lying!" I shout at him, quivering with rage and fear. I walk away before I throw up on him.

I hear Alistair's voice, but I can't tell what he's saying. The room sways and goes dark on me, and my heart hurts sharply. I cry out, dropping Thorn as my hand goes to my chest, and I collapse to my knees. I can't breathe. I come to again, laying on my back on the floor, Anders kneeling over me, looking frustrated and worried. "There's nothing wrong with you! It's not even fatigue!" he growls helplessly, and I sit up. How could there be nothing wrong?

Oh, _no_. Fairy tale rules.

"They're torturing him," I whisper, horrified.

"What?" Alistair asks, standing over me and holding out his hand. I take it, rising; he steadies me with an arm around my waist and looks down at me, totally confused. "How can you know that?"

"They're healing him, bringing him back when his heart stops," I say through numb lips, and his eyes widen.

"What? What are you talking about? You can't know that, Lily. We'll find him-"

Another wave of blackness overtakes me, and I want to retch again. My heart, my heart hurts, it hurts so bad, and there's no air, nothing, worse than drowning. I wake in Alistair's arms, looking up at his agonized face, and blink a few times, trying to push past the horror so I can put my fragmented reality back together. "We have to find him. Now. Put me down."

He shakes his head in negation. "You stopped breathing; maybe you should rest for a minute-"

"We don't have time for that! They're going to kill him soon!"

"Lily, what aren't you telling us?" Anders asks, and I realize I haven't said.

Alistair sets me on my feet, but I sway, feeling weak, and I'm grateful he hasn't really let go of me. "I couldn't just show up here, you know, without paying a price. He's the only reason I can be here at all, my tether to this place, because our souls have been tied somehow. Part of the terms of us being allowed to reach each other is that we can't outlive each other. Or, at the very least, I can't outlive him, because technically I don't belong here, to this world; if I'm alive, then so is he."

Alistair goes pale. "Maker's breath," he whispers, and I smile wanly. "You keep collapsing."

I look at him for a moment, watching him fully comprehend the implications, and then glance away. "Got no time for weakness. Let's go."

It takes too long. I black out four times, and even after, I'm having a hard time breathing. "Oh gods, oh gods," I whimper, stumbling after Ponka as quickly as I can, trying not to be a liability. There are too many people in our way. They are too good; they hurt me again and again, bringing me close to death too many times. It's affecting both of us, I can feel it. My mabari stops in front of yet another door, and I lean against the wall, my heart gone back to the tiring, irregular stutter I used to live with every day. Leliana checks it and Alistair raises his shield again. I am out of breath and sweaty, trembling with weakness, my arms and shoulders screaming with the strain of all the abuse I've put them through.

Leliana holds up a hand, listening, her brow furrowed, but then her eyes widen with alarm and she flings it open. Alistair charges in, Ponka right behind him, and I force myself to move forward after them, to be ready for battle once more. There are only four people in here, but it is another bloody fight, hard-won. These guys are even tougher, or maybe it's just because I'm so soul-weary. I feel worn thin. Alistair knocks over the guy who is about to bring his sword down on my head, his shield smashing into the guy just in time for me to only take it on the arm, and I sway, collapsing again.

When I struggle back to consciousness, there are tears leaking out of my eyes, and I can't stop them. "Zev," I whimper. My chest hurts. That's nine; if the Law of Three exists here, we're done for on the next round. I drag myself to my feet, Leliana wrapping an arm around my waist to steady me. Ponka is standing in front of another door, and he barks just as it opens, throwing himself on the person coming through with a vicious growl. Leliana jumps into the gap, firing three arrows at once, eliciting cries of surprise and pain from the next room.

...And a low, mirthless laugh, a voice I know better than my own, a sound that kindles a bright flame of desperate hope in my soul. "Finish it!" someone shouts, and I gasp as a horrible, sharp pain pierces me through the heart. Anders curses as I fall again, but I am able to still crawl, through the agony and the pulses of darkness.

I make my way, painfully, into the room. If I'm going to die, if _we're_ going to die, then I've got to find him, so I can at least lie down beside him. Oh, gods, this must be the state he was in when I got crushed on the docks. I don't know how he was walking. The pain in my chest eases up a bit, and I stagger to my feet, finally able to raise my eyes and look around. Alistair and Ponka are ripping apart a few Crows who are valiantly trying to survive, and failing miserably, as Leliana sinks arrow after arrow into them. Anders is continually chanting, his hands glowing, as he faces down the Crow mage. My gaze swings around to the other side of the room, and that's when I see Zev.

He's hanging by his arms, shackles bolted to the floor and ceiling keeping him suspended tightly. He is covered in blood, thick rivulets running down his skin to pool on the floor beneath him, so much of it I'm amazed we're still alive. Ah, but then, magical healing, of course. At first I think that they've simply laid into him while he was still dressed, but then I realize the tatters are _him_, and there are places where _his bones show through_.

Oh gods, the things they've done to him. I am momentarily paralyzed by overwhelming, sickening shock and horror. Torquemada's got nothin' on the Crows.

I've seen a lot of shit, but I've never been more horrified by anything in my life... except maybe for the Holocaust, but that's different. For me, that wasn't live and in person, smelling like mortality.

_Oh gods_!

I stumble over to him as quickly as I can. I don't know what happened to my daggers; I must have dropped them in the hallway. I turn the crank on the wall, only keeping my feet by sheer force of will; the chains go slack and I lower him to the floor. Gods, he's heavy; my exhausted arms shake with the effort of keeping it from just spinning and dropping him. I fall at his feet, getting his blood on my knees, and pull the pins on the shackles with trembling hands, crawling over him to reach all of them. Oh gods, his hands; they've broken them. Out of everything, this is what breaks my heart the most. I can hardly breathe, my chest still hurts, and I press my palm to his cheek, my tears falling on his face. _Oh, the bruises, my love_. I stroke the pad of my thumb gently over his eyebrow.

He blinks, squinting, and turns his head, looking up at me; the pain in his eyes hurts me more than the squeezing in my chest. "Shh... _dolcezza_..." he murmurs, dragging his arm up with obvious effort to trail his fingertips across my cheek, trying to comfort _me_, when he's the one laying there torn up, violated, and dying. "No... no tears..." He grimaces, and I feel that horrible clutching again, my vision swimming with spots, making me sob. How it must have cost him, just to make that tiny gesture. He doesn't want me to know how close he is; he doesn't want me to be frightened, even now.

"Zev..." I whisper, no longer any breath for my voice, pressing my hand to my own heart as I reel. He blinks, trying to focus on me, and I see him realize that I'm failing with him, as his eyes widen.

"_Amora_, oh Lily," he murmurs, and I can't stay up anymore. I collapse at his side, my eyes closing of their own accord, but I fight against it as I feel a warm hand cover mine, and I turn my hand over, my fingers pressing to the sluggish and stuttering pulse in his wrist.

"I tried... I'm sorry..." I try to wriggle closer, but I just don't have the strength for it. I pry my eyes open, meeting his golden gaze, but the tears get in the way, blurring him. I stroke his wrist with my fingertips - as much as I can, at this point - and because I'm afraid I may never get another chance to say it, I whisper the one thing I've never said, not to anyone but my parents and my sisters: "I love you, Zev." My breath gets very shallow, and the spots resolve into a dark haze, growing darker, and my thin voice echoes in my ears. "_Abelas, ar tu'din el'dareth..._" (3)

Leliana says something, her alarmed voice tinny and far away, but I can't make it out.

The next time I realize I'm conscious, I've got my face pressed into Alistair's neck, his pauldron shifting beneath my shoulder. He is whispering a steady litany of what amounts to 'Lily, please don't die again', and the world rocks back and forth with his stride, but I can't tell where we are. It's too dark. I black out again.

Waking again, my throat is raw, and Anders snaps to someone, "Andraste's flaming cunt, cover her mouth; I can't focus!" The world goes white and I am wracked with horrible pain. A large, callused hand covers my mouth as my body convulses, dragging a ragged wail from my throat.

"Why wasn't it this bad before?" Alistair asks, a thread of panic in his voice. "There wasn't any of this screaming and flailing!"

"I don't know!" Anders says querulously, and he sounds exhausted.

After a moment, Leliana speaks, her voice gentle but just as weary as the others'. "You know, last time, it was Lily who was broken, but Zevran was holding her while you healed her. They were touching."

I try to pry my eyes open, but it's just too bright, and all I can manage to do is flutter my eyelids a little as everything moves. Arms under me shift me, and my senses are suddenly flooded with Zev's scent, bringing me a peace so profound it would worry me, if I could spare it a thought. My head comes to rest in the hollow of his shoulder, and I whimper, instinctively wrapping my arm around his waist - well, it's more of a flop, really - even though it taxes me, sapping the very last of my strength to do so.

When the next wave of healing rolls across Zev, making him arch and twitch, I can feel Alistair leaning over us, holding my man down, and it no longer hurts. "They really are connected," Alistair says, surprised.

"She said as much, and just about died right along with him, and that's what it takes to convince you?" Anders asks, incredulous.

Alistair's laugh is more than a little self-deprecating. "No, I know _that_; I saw Zevran staggering when he brought her here, all broken. I'm not stupid. I meant... more... metaphorically, rather than physically."

"Metaphor's just another word for poetic truth," I mumble.

"Uh, sorry; I thought you were asleep," Alistair says, a note of sheepishness in his voice, and I smile, in spite of everything.

"Mmmh. 'Sokay. I keep thinkin' the same thing."

1. We will wreak vengeance upon the three humans inside this place.  
2. This ends now! Where is my Zevran?  
3. I'm sorry, I couldn't save us...


	11. Mere Mortals

There is silence in the room, when I wake next, but Ponka's presence, barring the door from opening without his express permission, is a comfort. Bright sunlight filters through the slatted shutters, throwing shadowy stripes across my lover's face. He looks so drawn and worn it makes my heart ache, and I know he's not okay by the fact that he doesn't stir as I sit up. I sit and stare at him for a moment, trying not to be terrified by that. We've spent so much time unconscious. His unbound hair is a tangle across his cheek, and I want to brush it away, but I know that even if my movement doesn't wake him, touching him certainly would, and he needs to sleep as much as possible.

I have a sudden vivid memory of the blood-soaked horror that was us, yesterday, and have to cover my mouth as my stomach rolls. Oh, ohhh... don't think about it. Don't think about the way the blood sprayed, along with a little gob of flesh, as the arrow suddenly burst from the servant/Crow's throat. Don't think about the dead maid's eyes, and how blue they were. Don't think about the guy with the mace, alive one moment and then dead, by my hand, the next. I went in there innocent, and came out having lost count of how many lives ended because of my blades. I close my eyes, trying to block out the images, and shake my head, but nothing wipes them away. Closing my eyes is actually worse.

_Don't think about Zev hanging there in chains._

I flinch, taking a quick breath and covering my face with my hands, even though the force of my eyes flying wide ought to be accompanied by the sound of breaking glass.

You don't think about it, when it's just a game, how many people's eyes you have to look into, in order to kill your way through a building full of hostiles. You don't consider how the people you're playing are sinking sharpened lengths of metal into flesh and bone, over and over again, being spattered by bits and the life's essence of an actual person, someone's child. You don't think about the crunch, and the ripping sounds, and the screams, what that really means. And you don't have to smell it, or feel the fatigue in your joints as you take another swing. Oh gods, I have got to get a grip. Welcome to the life of a soldier, right? I can't complain to anyone around me about how this is freaking me out, because everyone here is seasoned, and I'm supposed to be, too.

It might be okay for me to lay it on Zev, because he already knows, so I can cry on him about it later if I can't figure out how to stuff it in a box and bury it. I shake my head. Just think of it like a horror movie. It'll fade. I shudder, remembering how hot and slippery my hands had become, once they were covered in blood, and the teeth-shattering sound of metal on metal. Taking a deep breath, I shove the thoughts aside. I haven't got the luxury of being weak. We might still be alive, but it is now clear that the Crows know we're here. If we're going to do something about this, I have to get him back on his feet, and I have to be able to stand strong beside him. There is no other option. I'm not allowed to drown in this. Just keep swimming, just keep swimming. Oh, gods.

One thing at a time. I'm right here, right now, and there are things I have control over and things I don't. First order of business: take care of those things I do have control over. Right.

Ponka raises his head and looks at me, and I put a finger to my lips, asking for quiet. He stands up and comes over to me, laying his head against my thigh. I reach down and scratch his ear, and he closes his eyes, leaning into my hand. I'm not a dog person, as a general rule, because I find them to be rather stupid, for the most part. They drool, jump on you, and eat their own poop. Gross! But it's sometimes scary to me, how smart _this_ dog is. I mean, with most dogs, you could sit there and talk to them, and they'd just be content to hang out and listen to your voice, because you're their human, but not this dog. When he looks at me, while I'm talking, I know he understands every word, because he'll react like a _person_.

One afternoon, I was sitting next to him in the library, with certainly no-one close enough to hear me whisper, and I confessed to him that being here is frightening to me, that this isn't the world I come from, and he turned and looked at me, just like anyone might. He sighed, shook his head, and laid it across my leg, just leaning against me. When I didn't do anything at first, he shifted, and shoved his nose under my hand, flipping it up onto his brow, demanding a scratch. I looked down at him as I obliged, and said, "So, everything is better when there's mabari scratchin' involved, hm?" and he grinned and _nodded_.

I shift, and he scoots away, giving me room to get out of the bed. My bare feet hit the floor, and I realize I'm only wearing a tunic, again. I need to get something to eat and visit the loo. Turning, I see that Zev hasn't moved an inch; when I leave he might panic, if he wakes. Remembering yesterday, I tuck my hand under our pillows, and find that the dagger never made its way back. He'll _really_ panic if there's no weapon close to hand. From the chest at the foot of the bed, I grab a pair of breeches for myself, and then pop open the little compartment at the bottom, pulling out the backup-backup dagger. I slide it under my pillow, watching his face, but there's not even a flicker of an eyelid, and this makes my heart clench with worry. I want to stay, but my body has other demands.

Kneeling down next to my mabari, I whisper in his ear, "Stay here and protect him for me, okay? I'll be back soon; I'm going down to the kitchen to get some food. Are you hungry?" He snuffles at the side of my face and dances back and forth a little bit, wiggling his tail, and I whisper-laugh. "Okay. I'll make sure they're ready to feed you when I get back." For this, I am rewarded by a lick to the side of my face, and I smile at him, ruffling his ears.

With a last glance over my shoulder for Zev - and my good dog sitting staunchly at his side - I slip out into the corridor, quietly shutting the door behind me. I wait a handful of heartbeats, torn with warring desires, but I finally cannot put it off, and head for the washroom. One thing I like about Antiva is that they've got actual toilets. They don't flush - it's just an open pit - but it's no worse than a biffy, and infinitely better than a chamber pot. Those things are just disgusting.

I head down to the kitchen, starting to feel tired before I even get there. I hate this shit. I've never been a very patient invalid at even the best of times, but this is just horrible, the worst possible time to be useless. I pass several Wardens on the way down, and they all dip their heads to me. I don't know how or why the people here know who I am - probably loud-mouthed servants, really - but they all look at me with barely concealed awe, half the time. It's... really embarrassing. I haven't done anything to deserve that, not really. I'm not the person they think I am. I still hear 'Mahariel' and 'Hero' whispered behind my back, but at least people don't say any of that to my face anymore. I can't seem to stop them from trying to salute me, though.

Eating in their customary place at one of the long tables outside the kitchen are a handful of Alistair's men. The sideboard, with its ever-present array of munchies, stands half-wrecked, a testament to the latest influx of the Wardens' hunger. I grab a wooden bowl and fill it with random items - I really don't know what most of the food here is, but all of it is pretty tasty, so I just try to get what looks to be about a square meal - then sit a little way down from them to eat.

"_Ehi_," one of them says, his voice rising above the murmur of their chat to reach my ears. It takes me a moment to register that he might be talking to me. "_Ehi_, the Blight tales, they say you were an elf," he says, and I look up in time to see the man next to him punch him soundly in the shoulder.

"_Zitto_, Raffaello," the other man growls, and I shake my head, but 'Raffaello' will not be dissuaded, and he turns to argue with the other man, batting his arm aside.

"No, Angelo, I will not be silent. We all know what the price is to slay an Archdemon. Everyone wants to pretend as though we do not know who she is, but we do." Turning back to me, he looks me up and down, frowning. "Enzo, he has told of a night when he overheard you in conversation with the Warden Commander." He turns and looks at another one of the men, who shifts uncomfortably.

"_Scusi_, I did not intend any intrusion, but your voices, they carried to the courtyard. You said that you are no longer a Warden," Enzo says.

I close my eyes for a moment, a long blink, feeling myself go pale. Of course. The stupid, gods-damned open window. At least one other person heard all the shit that went down between Alistair and me. Great. That's just _great_. "The Taint- You know how to escape it. You must tell us, how did you survive the Archdemon." Raffaello's voice is flat, not carrying the cadence of a question. It's practically a command, and as this soldier levels me with a very serious stare, I swallow. I'm not used to dealing with people of this calibre, and I constantly feel outclassed, everywhere I go. Oh, intimidation, I feel it.

They are all watching me, and I let out a breath, putting down the piece of bread I had so desperately wanted to eat, my heart in my throat. What the hell do I say to these men? I'm not their saviour. I don't want to be anyone's hero - that's the escape, not the reality. "I didn't," I say, watching their faces. They all stare at me, and I shift uncomfortably. "Look, I don't know that I've got any more answers than you do when it comes to certain things, but I can give you a list of facts. Yes, I was once a Warden and an elf, and I died to end the Blight. From what I understand, I am buried in the Brecilian Forest, returned to my clan and the earth. The Hero of Ferelden, Lily Mahariel, is dead. Yet, I am Lily." I spread my hands and shrug.

There is a moment of silence as they all exchange confused, sceptical, and surprised glances, so I grab the jug in the middle of the table and pour myself a cup of what turns out to be simple water. Eventually, one of them slowly says, "Are you a demon?" clearly not expecting his question to be even a plausible explanation.

I can't help but laugh a little. "Nooo... Y'think Anders'd let me wander around? I'm human, same as you."

"Yet, you act like an elf," Raffaello protests. "You even speak Elvish. Many have heard you."

"And clearly, you are alive," Angelo puts in.

"Yes. I speak Elvish, and yes, I am alive. Touch me, I am solid; cut me, I bleed and curse a lot. I breathe, and eat, and sweat, and shit, and sleep. I'm a woman. I get confused sometimes, and other times I'm clever; I hate wearing shoes, I appreciate a good spiced mead, and I recently discovered I really don't like figs." I shrug. "So, I am clearly real, and just as mortal as the next person. I don't honestly know how I can be here." I grab a piece of shredded chicken and stuff it in my mouth while they look at each other again, and then I get half a dozen pairs of furrowed brows in my direction.

I wave a hand, swallowing. "I know this doesn't make much sense; I don't really understand it very well, myself. What I _can_ tell you is that the only escape from the Taint is death, I'm sorry, and dead is dead - there's no coming back from that without a terrible price, whether you mean to do it or not." I swallow again, and shake my head.

Angelo takes advantage of my pause to interject. "Your price - you are no longer a Warden, yes? Nor an elf?"

I blink. "Uh... You know, that's not even the half of it, and... I try not to think about it. My existence here is tenuous, at best."

The knowing look in Enzo's eye makes me think not all he overheard was unintentional, but that the others don't share it tells me he has kept his own counsel, at least. He may even have heard the whole thing. If so, he's got a pretty damned good idea that I'm tied to Zev somehow. I wonder how dangerous that information is going to become to us.

I try to change the subject. "I wish I could tell you that there's a way to avoid the Calling. I am... I'm an impossibility, sort of like a ghost. Don't look at me as proof of anything except the unpredictability of the gods' whims." I shake my head, taking a bite of what turns out to be mango. "I can talk with you about anything, sure; ask me questions about my experiences as a Warden, and I'll try to share what I know. As for how I got here, why I'm still alive, any of that? I have no answers, brothers, only guesses."

There is another pause, so I drink some of the water and eat a few bites of bread. Eventually, one of them says, "I heard a tale of a Warden in Ferelden who became possessed by a spirit from the Fade. _After_ he died. They say that he could be smelled before he was seen."

I glance at the man sidelong. "And? You sayin' I need a bath? Wow, way to make a girl feel pretty." As the other soldiers laugh, I cover my smirk with another bite of bread. "I'm not an abomination, either. I'm just me, same person I've always been."

"You claim us brothers, yet you are no Warden; I cannot feel you," the last soldier says, the one who has been silent, up until now, and he fixes me with a sceptical gaze that feels a little reptilian to me. "Tell me, what was your Joining like?" The tone in his voice tells me that this is a test, so I look him in the eye when I answer, even though he's freaking me out.

I keep my voice as level and bland as possible. "There were three of us, and Alistair, with the Warden Commander of Ferelden at the time, Duncan. Daveth was the first to take the cup; he fought, his eyes turned white, but he almost made it. Jory tried to defect, and pulled a blade on Duncan, so Duncan killed him. I took the cup, it was vile, I choked on it, and then... the world went green. Everything was blurry, but not like the Fade. The screaming... I saw the dragon. The scary part? It saw _me_. Fighting my way clear of that was... was..." I shake my head. I don't really know - it was a cutscene. Scared the shit out of me when it happened, because I'd been playing in the dark. "I woke up with them leaning over me. I got the Oath, and then, well, a lot more happened besides, but that's how it went. Sometimes, I've wondered if the reason _my_ nightmares were so hellish is because it knew _I_ was coming for it. Then again, we were the only Wardens in Ferelden at the time, so maybe it just wasn't hard for it to find us. 'Course, that theory doesn't really explain why it saw me as soon as I Joined." I shrug.

I look back down at my food, but I've lost my appetite. I drop the bread back into the bowl and dust off my fingers. "You really are the Hero," one of them says quietly, and I squeeze my eyes shut, hanging my head, my tangled hair falling over my face. I need to get back to Zev. I'm starting to feel antsy being away from him, and I really don't want him to wake without me there, after everything that happened.

"Brother, I'm no-one's hero, and I'm certainly not the 'Hero of Ferelden'. My name is Lily. Don't call me anything else, for the love of the gods. I'm not who I once was; that name, that title, it's very, very dangerous to me, and to everyone here - surely you can see that." I stand up, carrying my bowl back over to the sideboard and loading it up with as much food as it can hold. "I _was_ her, once, but not anymore. It's weird, and doesn't make a lick of sense, but there it is. Unfortunately, I have to get back upstairs," I tell them, turning around again. "Since you guys were the ones who had the guts to ask me the questions that have apparently been preying upon everyone's minds for a while now, if you six in particular ever want to corner me and ask me for a Blight story, I might tell you one - I wouldn't do that for anyone else. But in return, I want you to do just one thing for me." I look around at all of them, and they exchange glances, then look at me again, some sceptical, some open. "All I ask is that you pass on the fact that I don't want to be referred to as 'Hero' or 'Mahariel', because they're neither my title nor my name. Not even amongst ourselves." I look at them, and wave a finger, adding hastily, "And no bowing or anything, either. Do we have an accord?"

There are nods and general murmurs of agreement, even from the quiet one, and I nod back, once, in acknowledgement. "Right. Thank you." Grabbing the pitcher and tucking my cup into my elbow, I head through the kitchen door and address the cook. "_Scusi_, uh, I'm going to be sending my mabari down here to eat, soon, just so you're aware." She gives me a long-suffering look, but nods. "Oh, hey, he doesn't give you any trouble, does he?"

"No, _signora_, he is simply very big, and very hungry."

I smile. "No worse than the other Wardens, I hope?"

She laughs and shakes her head. "No, but they do not eat in the kitchen."

"Ah, Ponka doesn't have to, either. You can send him to eat with the Wardens, or ask him to take his food elsewhere, you know. He will understand you, and I'll tell him to listen to you."

She smiles gratefully. "_Grazie_."

I nod and head out the other door to the hallway, not wanting to go back in where the men are. Outside of our room, I run into Anders, who is just coming out. "Has he woken up yet?" I ask, worried.

Anders shakes his head. "Not yet, but soon." He peers at me closely, leaning in, and I lean back a bit out of reflex. "Are you all right?"

I smile wanly. "I'm tired, and I just got interrogated by some of the Wardens, but I'll live. How is he?"

The healer gives me a reproachful smirk. "He's fine now, of course." The humour falls away just as quickly as it appeared. "He was in bad shape, Lily. I'm not sure which of you was worse, to be quite honest." I shiver. Mine was instant, and I wasn't conscious. Everything was done to him systematically, over the course of a couple hours of hell, things that should've killed him, repeatedly, but they wouldn't allow him the escape. A tear springs to my eye before I can stop it, and I blink it away, but my hands are full, so there's no hiding it, at all. Slowly, so that I have time to back away if I want, Anders reaches toward me, and since I don't move, he brushes it off my cheek with the back of a finger before letting his hand drop to squeeze my shoulder comfortingly. "Shh, I know. He's going to need you," he says, his eyes sympathetic.

I bite my lip and turn my face aside, nodding. "Thanks. I mean that. Is he... I mean, are you done? Does he need any more?"

"I don't know yet. We'll have to see how things go when he gets up and walks around a little. Sometimes people spring a leak, once pressure is applied. I'll check in with you again tonight, unless you end up needing me sooner," he assures me, and I nod again. He reaches behind himself and opens the door for me.

"Oh, thank you," I murmur, going to move past him, and he steps to the side. Ponka stands up, and I say, "Okay, go on down to the kitchen, and you listen to the cook if she tells you to eat someplace else. Good manners are important." He snorts, but then nods, and trots out.

I sit on the trunk, setting down my spoils, and wave to Anders as he ducks out, shutting the door behind him. My hunger has returned; now that I'm back here and can see that Zev is indeed okay, I tuck in and eat. Besides a small pile of some kind of curried, spicy chicken and the sweet berry bread I picked up, there are slices of tomato, some kind of mild cheese, something that tastes like rosemary focaccia bread, what I thought was spinach turns out to be basil, and what looked like salami turns out to be some kind of sweet and spicy ham-like thing, as well as the remainder of my slice of mango. I arrange the rest of it into piles so that the bread doesn't get soggy. By the time I'm finished, and pouring myself another cup of water, Zev suddenly sits up, naked blade in hand, startling me with the ferocity of the look on his face. I freeze, feeling like a mouse in the middle of a field when the hawk cries, waiting for him to register where he is. After a moment, his eyes focus on me, and his face transforms with relief.

The dagger disappears and he slumps, suddenly flopping back with a groan. I set down cup and pitcher and crawl over the bed to him. "You're awake," I murmur, so glad to see him, and brush my fingers across his forehead to draw the trailing strands of hair away from his eyes. "Are you hungry?"

In response, he makes a querulous little growl, wraps his arms around my shoulders, and pulls me down to lay beside him. I knew he would be weaker - I had barely been able to move when I first woke up after being crushed - but the proof of it in his embrace is frightening on a whole new level. He pulls me against him tightly, tucking me in along his side, one of his hands buried in my hair adjusting the position of my face against his neck. I wrap an arm and a leg over him, my hand curling around his opposite shoulder as I fit myself as close as I can, knowing that this time it's up to _me_ to hold us together, to make us wound just as tightly as we usually are.

He doesn't say anything for a long time, never releasing me from his grasp. It's so scary. His usual bands of steel are mere mortal flesh, no more safe than my own. His jaw rubs against my forehead as he turns his face, and lips soft as velvet press firmly to my third eye. Ever since that day on the beach, there's been a curious little spark to it, when he does that. The way my temple presses against his skin, I can feel how fast his heart is beating through the pulse of the vein in his neck, and it takes my breath away. It never occurred to me that he could be frightened, not really, not like this. My Zev is as immovable and eternal as a mountain, strong and fearless and deadly. The fast pounding of his heart thrumming beneath my ear, the fluttering under my palm where it rests against his neck, the way he clings to me, drawing deep breaths with his nose buried in my hair, they put the lie to it. He is a man, and this last twenty-four hours has proven it to me, very vividly, with such crystal-clear detail that I'm undoubtedly scarred for life.

"You are unhurt, _amora_?" His breath is hot against my temple, and we are pressed so close, I can feel the movement of his mouth.

I hum in agreement, not wanting to bother him with how hurt I had been when he is the one who was being... mutilated... while fully conscious. "Mm-hm; Anders saw to both of us."

Trembling fingers work their way through my hair, wandering down to my jaw, tipping my chin up to make me look into his honey gold eyes, and his gaze is direct. "I could feel you, in there, when they were having their... ah, shall we say, 'fun'."

I squeeze my eyes shut and nod. Duh. It doesn't go just one way; hadn't I already guessed? The memory of how I found him assails me again, the tacky blood on my knees, the smell of his mortality, blood all over my hands, trying to pull the pins when my fingers barely worked. I open my eyes again quickly, trying to stop the flood of images, and it is his face, whole and unharmed, that finally quiets them. I kiss him passionately, banishing the fear for just a few, precious seconds. "There were... so _many_ of them... It took so _long_..." I say when I draw back, and then cling just a little bit tighter. "I figured it out, the third time I felt it, what was going on, what they... were doing. I tried, I tried to stay on my feet, to be strong and quick, but I wasn't, I just wasn't, and I could feel it affecting you. I'm so sorry... I couldn't get there fast enough."

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "No, _amora mia_, you got there fast enough. We are _alive_." I feel his lungs fill as he draws a deep breath, holding it for a moment and then releasing it in a heavy sigh. "Perhaps we should leave off the Crows, find some small mountain village, start a cult, worship some dragons, yes? Surely it would be somewhat less exciting."

This gives me pause. It's the exact opposite of his earlier statements. I want to agree with him. I'm a coward; I want to run. This shit is crazy, and hard, and full of blood and pain and death. I hate it. But he said it himself... There's no outrunning the Crows. If we stay here, we can't stop until he's got enough power to command them to leave off, and then it'll still be a constant vigil, followed by a someday bloody death at the hands of another who has grown fast enough to take him - us - down. But if we run, we'll be followed, hunted down like animals, and we still will never be safe, because there will always be someone coming. There will always be someone else we have to kill, no matter what we do. There's no such thing as peace, not for me, not for us. Never again.

"If you think it best..." I say, slowly.

He kisses me softly, then shakes his head, reluctantly. "No." He sighs. "What I think is 'best' does not matter to the Crows. There is only one true way to leave - boots first, into the fire. Any other way is nothing but a fool's dream."

What does that make me, then? "We seem to be figuring out ways to make dreams reality, lately. Impossible ones, even," I whisper, knowing, even as I say it, that there isn't any escape.

He rubs his face with his hand, shaking his head again. "There are only so many dreams one can have before awakening." He sighs and twists to face me, forcing me to loosen my grip a bit. "We have only so much grace and luck; it is best to not reach for too much more, lest what we do have be taken away."

He's right, I know he is, but... "Aren't we reaching for that, no matter which way we jump, really?" We'll need plenty of grace and luck to make it through, either way.

Zev shakes his head, a small frown on his lips. "No, for while one is improbable, the other is foolish impossibility. Better to go for the improbable than the impossible, yes? If it were just myself at risk..." He hisses in irritation, his brows furrowing, and I feel bad for just being here, all over again. I'm such an anchor around his neck. "No matter; things are as they are. The lots have been drawn; best to work with what is available." He reaches up, tracing the curve of my eyebrow and the arch of my cheekbone with one fingertip. "The Crows are naught but mortal men and women - they bleed just the same as any other, and so we must make them bleed, more than ourselves, until we are the ones standing afterward, until there are none who yet stand in opposition."

I have to swallow twice before I can speak, because the prospect of this life terrifies me beyond words. Constant vigil against poisons, and daggers in the dark. Intrigue and blood. "We could never lay down our blades," I whisper, agonized. "Where does it end?"

"No one ever can; there will be time enough for rest when we are dead." A callused thumb drags over my lower lip, his gaze focused on its path. "Life is always a struggle, in some way or another. Vigilance is what guards and protects the struggle, holding the inevitable at bay for a time. Eventually, it will come - that is the only true universal thing in all of Thedas. All of us, from peasant to Divine, we meet our Maker when it does; any other thought is little but the addled belief of the mad."

I never really appreciated just how _soft_ my life was, before. I wonder if I'll ever know a time of relative peace like that again. Probably not. I should talk to Anders about birth control. If we're going to do this, if we're going to kill our way to the top of a pile of killers, there's no way we can afford someone to gain that kind of leverage over us. And I can't afford to be that much of a liability, any more than I already am.

I squeeze my eyes shut for just a second. "I wish I could've taken you home with me, instead. They could never have reached us there, and we would've had peace. I don't know. Maybe my world was too soft. I've been thinking I am too, really, but I'm trying to catch up."

The look he gives me is knowing. "Ah, but what would I do in such a world? And with no magic, how would you be healed? No, this is best - otherwise your injuries would have robbed me of your presence far too soon."

I sigh and shake my head. It's all immaterial anyway. No matter what, the whim of the gods notwithstanding, we have to play the hand we're dealt. "Life is life; I don't care where we go, not really, just as long as at the end of the day, whatever I've had to do to earn it, I can lay down again next to you." I would never say this, because it's ridiculously sappy, and I've already been about as mushy as I care to get, but the real fact is, he _is_ my home. I'll never have any other.


	12. Sour Times

It scares the shit out of me, how weak Zev is the first time he comes to, that he has to lean on me on the way to the washroom, that I have to help him with everything. Not that I mind it, of course, but oh gods, he's supposed to be the strong one. He is exhausted and reeling by the time we make it back to our room, and I barely catch him as he falls unconscious before we make it to the bed. He's too heavy, I can't lift him. It's the best I can do to just break his fall, because the bed is simply too far away to push him onto it. I end up laying on the floor in front of the chest at the foot of the bed, with him on top of me, and I look over at Ponka, who stands nearby, worried. "Uh. You know, I wish you had thumbs." He grins and snorts, and I sigh. "I could use a little help, here. Go find Anders, 'kay?"

It isn't the last time I'll have to send Ponka after the healer. Or someone, anyone.

By the end of the week, he's strong enough to be on his feet most of the time, but, just like I did, he still randomly passes out in inconvenient places. Anders tells me that he's healing a lot faster than me because he's an elf, surprised that I don't know that already. All I can do is shake my head. "Never thought about it, before," I say, shrugging. Maybe that's why he always feels like he's running a low-grade fever. "So, I was wondering..." I trail off, shifting uncomfortably, and he arches an eyebrow at me.

"What? You're not going to ask me where babies come from, are you?" he teases, grinning, and I blush.

"Oh, for gods' sake. But, actually, that's closer than you think. What I..." I clear my throat, not liking having to talk about this with a guy I'm not sleeping with. All my gynecologists have been women, for this reason. "Uh, I need some birth control, actually."

Anders' eyebrows go up, but he nods, knowingly. "Ah, yeah, a bad time to be expecting a little one, right now, isn't it." He holds his hand out toward my stomach, that cold light glowing between his fingers for a moment, and I hold still. "Hmm..." he mutters, then shakes his head as the light fades. "Nothing to worry about yet. Anyway, Zevran should have some."

I blink, a little taken aback, but hey, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It didn't occur to me to ask him about it. I shrug. "Okay, well, what is it? How much do I take?"

Anders stares at me in surprise, and then bursts out laughing, so hard he has to put a hand out and brace himself on the wall. "You? You take the-" he gasps. He laughs again, and I cross my arms. Eventually, he gets control of himself, wiping a tear from his eye. "Ah, ah that's funny. Oh, I needed that. Heh. Thanks. Haha, _you_ take the herbs. Tsh." He shakes his head, smiling, still chuckling.

Now I'm kind of irritated, and I put my hand on my hip. "Oh. Yeah. Nice. Make fun of me; that's just great. I _like_ having control over my own body, thank you very much. What's so crazy about that?"

He stops, looking at me in surprise again, and then he says, "Wait, you're serious?"

I tap my foot and point at my chin with my free hand. "Does this look like my 'haha, I'm joking' face?"

Anders shakes his head, and I can tell he's trying not to be patronizing, not to laugh at me again. "Nooo, Lily, you don't understand. _Men_ take it. It... stills the seed. The side-effects for women are too risky. Its main effectiveness for women is that it makes them so horribly bitchy that sex is the _last_ thing they're likely to get. It can damage your ability to conceive, and cause you to grow hair in places you're not likely to want it. I mean, unless you _want_ a nice pelt," he says, running a hand down his chest and grinning at me cheekily. I blush at the sudden visual, making him grin even more. Thankfully, he lets it slide. "Zevran seems like a flexible man, but waking up to a bear-chest with boobs may not be his thing, long-term. Though it does sound like it'd be great in winter..." he muses, pretending to give it serious thought, and I punch him lightly in the arm. "I wonder how cold it gets here..."

I never would have thought that I'd miss birth-control pills. I bite my lip. "So there's nothing I can take?"

"There are too many risks, Lily. There are things, yes, and you might even be able to find someone who would give them to you, but they can be quite harmful, and there's just no telling how much will be too much - where the line will be - because every woman's body is different." He shakes his head. "It's moments like this that make me wonder what kind of barbarian land you come from."

"Uh, where I come from, it's the women who are in charge of whether or not there's a baby," I tell him, shaking my head. "Well, mostly," I amend, thinking of people like devout Catholics and Mormons, who don't believe in birth control because it's 'messing with God's plan', or the people who object to simple prevention on the grounds that it's murderous and the same as an abortion.

Anders arches an eyebrow at me. "A woman still decides, men are just the ones who take the powders," he says. "Women's lives are rough enough without some idiot foisting this crap on them. Any self-respecting guard, soldier, or warrior takes precautions. It's in everyone's best interests if we keep our seed stilled unless our women are making family plans. Not that I have to worry much about that, anymore," he adds, smiling self-deprecatingly.

I almost argue that he's got time, that he hasn't been a Warden long enough. Morrigan said Alistair was still capable of it, two and a half years after he Joined, so Anders could still have a child if he found a woman he wanted to have a family with, but I catch myself just in time - he's a healer; he would know better than me what his body is still capable of. "I swear, I wish I could box up half of that good sense and send it back to the men where I come from," I say instead, shaking my head. "It's all the woman's responsibility. The men don't have to do anything, if they don't wanna, and we can't really make them."

"Ah. And all the woman's fault if there's a child, too, eh? Stupid," he opines, seeing my nod.

"Yep. No place like home, thankfully. So, anyway, uh, I'm used to my fertility being in my own hands, y'know? I'm really not comfortable with the idea that it isn't."

Anders nods. "I see that. Well, look, just as a backup, there is something I can give you," he says, turning and rummaging in the ever-present satchel at his hip. After a moment, he hands me a lemon. I stare at it.

"Uh. A... lemon?" I ask, sceptical. Maybe it's a magical lemon?

"Uh... yes?" He stares at me for a moment, then just shakes his head. "I'd ask you what you used to do, but I'm afraid of the answer." He looks kind of worried, and I arch an eyebrow.

"Okay, but _how_? I know I'm not supposed to _eat_ it, so what do I do with it?"

He closes his eyes and sighs, rubbing at the wrinkle between his brows. "It's a three-to-one mix of water to lemon. You... put it in there, before you have sex. And then some after, as well. And leave it for a while before you stand up."

I blink. "...'In'? How the hell do I do that?"

"Maker's breath," he mutters, turning red. "Save half the lemon and use it as a cup!"

I blink again, looking down dubiously at the fruit in my hand. "That actually works?" If it's that easy, why do women spend so much on hormone-based contraceptives?

"The whores use them all the time," he says, shrugging. "It's not fail-proof, but between Zevran's herbs and you with the lemon, you should be fine." There's a pause, and then he says, "You haven't talked to him about it." The guilt is all over my face, I know it, as I glance up at him, because he gives me that disapproving look again, the same one he gives me every time I push myself too hard. "It takes two to make a baby, and it takes two to prevent one. So, put on your big-girl knickers and go tell your man you don't want a baby right now."

I scowl, but I can't hold it. I feel like a chastised child, which is ridiculous, because I'm not doing anything wrong. "Hey now, that's not fair. My approach to this has always been matter-of-fact, and it's right, as far as it goes, for where I come from. I mean, I get that I'm not there anymore, but the way people look at me sometimes, when I try to go about things in what, for me, is the usual way, makes me feel like a fucking idiot. I'm not used to there being a _need_ for me to discuss this kind of thing with a man beforehand; it's always been my responsibility to simply see to it, the same way you say any conscientious warrior should. The women of my homeland actually had to _fight_ for the right to be _allowed_ to determine when or if we would have children." Margaret Sanger, I love you forever, lady. Anders looks taken aback, and I snort. "Yeah."

"Maker's Breath, that has _got_ to be the dumbest thing I've ever heard!" Anders shakes his head incredulously. Before I can get irritated with him, he waves his hands back and forth in denial. "Not you! I mean... I mean _them_! That place is... not fit for anyone! They sound like utterly primitive, barbaric swamp creatures. There's plenty of people here dumber than a pile of muck, but _really_? Making women _fight_ to have the _right_ to control their own bodies? No healers, fine. Men who leave women out in the cold because they can't figure out how to take powders... possibly tolerable. But women having to fight to have _any_ rights at all? What is this? The old Imperium?"

I snort. "Haha, sweetheart, you don't know the half of it."

He rubs his forehead in what would be a rather adorable facepalm moment, if I didn't know he was really that confused and frustrated. "Was there _anything_ to recommend the place? I'm trying to come up with something, anything, but the only thing I can see is you. And since you're not there anymore, I suppose it's lost all its worth."

I blush and giggle a little, unaccustomed to the heartfelt compliment. "Awww. Thank you. Hmm... There are things I miss, yeah."

"Such as?"

I have to think a moment, because the list is kind of long, and full of things that are entirely anachronistic for this place and time, but there is one thing - one really, really big thing, to me - that's easy to explain. "I'm a big fan of the arts, so I miss a lot of that stuff, but there are artists, playwrights, authors, and musicians here, so I'm sure I'll find new favourites, eventually. What I really miss the most are _showers_. We had a way to force warm water up and out of a pipe in the wall, so it would spray down on you, and you could wash without having to sit. It was great. I know how it works, and it's fairly simple, so maybe someday I'll show some craftsmen how to put it together. The things we could do with water would amaze you, sir."

He arches an eyebrow as I nod, giving him a knowing look, and he says, "I have to admit, that does sound like it might have some merit to it."

"But, really?" I shrug. "You're right - there isn't much I miss. Certain foods and objects, a couple of people... my cat... but other than that? Nope."

Anders nods, sympathetic. "I miss my cat too - Wiggums. Sadly, he got possessed by a rage demon." Suddenly the mage brightens. "But he did manage to kill several Templars at the Tower because of it, before they were able to put him down! I was never so proud."

I smile. I understand the idea behind Templars, but just like any religion-run army, they are very biased and blind, and are not really good for the people they're supposedly protecting. Seems like I remember something like that from the Broken Tower quest, something about someone drew in the margins of a book with crayons about a cat named Wiggums, but I can't rightly recall off the top of my head where I saw it. "Hmmm... A rage demon cat I could understand a lot better than the desire demon one I found in Honnleath. That was... much more disturbing. My cat, though... Alas, she never ate anyone. There were a few people I would've fed to her, otherwise..." Mmh. If I could've fed Tommy to Wanderer, things might've been a little different, I think. "Oh well, doesn't matter now. Poor thing; I hope she's okay without me. Hopefully my sister's got her. I kinda left without meaning to." Surely Sofia would've rescued her.

Anders blinks, caught off-guard. "You did? How? You didn't know you were coming here?"

I sigh. Me and my big fat mouth. "Uh, no. I didn't. I... uh... fell through a hole in the Fade."

He gives me a strange look. "A hole in the Fade? Really?"

I shrug and grin. "Eh. Could be. That's my best guess, anyway. Hey, but what do I know? I was dead at the time." I give him a wink. "Thanks for the lemon," I say, turning away before he can ask me any more difficult questions, and give me yet another opportunity to say something stupid.

I am walking through the courtyard, looking down at the lemon and idly turning it in my hands, when I hear a man's voice shouting, "Warden! Warden!" This is not an uncommon occurrence, so I pay it no heed, particularly since there are so many Wardens around me at the moment. It is not until I am turning the corner to go down a hallway, heading for our room, that I feel a touch at my elbow. I turn quickly, and there is a man standing behind me, hands held up and empty, backing away from me a pace, but the way he is studying me, the calculation and assessment in his eyes, doesn't make me very comfortable.

"Excuse me?" I go for innocence. "Sorry, you must be mistaken; I'm no Warden. If you'd like to speak to one, however, there are several-" I begin, pointing back toward the courtyard, but he cuts me off.

"Your voice- It _is_ you!" he exclaims, and I feel exposed, like I'm standing naked in a field.

"Uh... What?" I look the man over, trying to figure out if I should know him, but beards always throw me: late 30's, reddish brown hair, round-ish face, 'bout six feet tall, barrel-chested... and rings no bells. "I'm sorry, sir-"

"Do you not recognize me?" he asks, lowering his hands to his sides. "We met in Denerim, before the fall," he says, and I feel my blood run cold. Oh, I don't play poker for a very good reason, because the way this man's eyes change tells me that he's reading my face quite easily.

"Who are you?" I ask, my voice gone a little bit hoarse around the edges.

"Cesar, Warden." His smile widens as I feel my mouth drop open a little in surprise. Of course; if my party is here, why wouldn't there be others? I talked to _so many_ people during the Blight. Oh gods, and all of them are real. I take another involuntary step backward, but Cesar pretends not to notice. "We could hardly believe it when we heard that you were here, in Antiva, _alive_, if no longer quite yourself. Ignacio will be so pleased to know that the rumours are true!"

His eyes widen as his head suddenly tips back, and a dagger is pressed across his throat a mere moment before Zevran's face appears over Cesar's shoulder. "Just exactly _how_ happy would he be, hmm? And, more importantly, _why_?" he hisses.

I feel a sudden flood of relief, even though my heart is in my mouth. "Ignacio does not forget those who do him such kind service," Cesar replies carefully, and though his smile is tight, he keeps his body relaxed.

I have to swallow before I can make myself speak. "You'll forgive us if we're not exactly in the business of being trusting anymore," I say, taking another step back, so I don't get splattered if Zev needs to cut his throat. A small part of me notes that this practical mindset is a little frightening, but I don't have time to worry about that now. Just stuff it in the box with the rest of it.

"Your assistance in Denerim was invaluable, Warden. We have had some... ah... minor difficulties... due to the fall of Denerim and our need to return to the roost. We could certainly use some more... beneficial cooperation." Zev lets go of Cesar's head, coming around the front of the man, keeping his dagger in hand. It does not escape my notice that he puts himself between me and Cesar, though without blocking my view. "Perhaps we could have this conversation in a more... secluded location?"

Jobs. Who knows if this'll be okay? I mean, going after the guys that were killing our sympathisers in The Pearl was easy pickings, but the Qunari were brutal, and nearly slaughtered us, and that was after I'd got her all the assassin skills and had Momentum going all the time. If he puts us up against shit like that again, I'm gonna- no, _we're_ gonna die. "Uh... Okay... Let's go to the library."

"Lead us, _amora_," Zev says, so I just turn and walk away. Whatever he's doing behind me, I trust him to protect me, and I would trust him with my life even if it wasn't connected to his. I hear the door shut behind us, and turn at last, to see Zev with his arm companionably around Cesar's waist. This confuses me until I realise that the way he's holding himself rather neatly conceals the dagger angled to go straight into Cesar's kidney if he makes any wrong move.

"I'll do a sweep," I murmur, and quickly check all the corners and nooks, but there's nobody here but us chickens. Haha... or Crows, as it were. Zev arches an eyebrow at me when I return, smirking at my own internal joke, but I shake my head. There's just no explaining _The Muppet Show_. "We're alone," I tell him, and he steps away from Cesar, pointing to a chair. Cesar sits, the picture of ease, and I sit across from him. Zev stays on his feet, just slightly ahead of me and to one side. Still between us, even now, and I love him for it; how protective my man is.

"What business could you possibly have with us?" Zevran asks him, his voice cold and hard.

Cesar looks up at Zev. "I came to speak with Enzo, as I had heard what happened to Maso's cell. Everyone knew he held the contract on you for some time. Your name is notorious, Zevran, particularly after not a single man of Taliesen's cell returned from Ferelden."

Enzo. Of course. "Who does he work for?" I ask.

"Enzo? He is a Warden now, so does not answer to the Guild directly anymore, but he does act on the Guild's behalf from time to time, just as you yourself did. Small things, trivialities," he says, flicking his fingers dismissively. "Nothing that compromises his loyalty to the Order. After the tales we heard, I thought perhaps speaking to the Wardens would yield some more accurate information, and it appears that I was correct."

"What made you think it was me?" I ask, and his gaze swings back to mine.

"Perhaps you will have a better understanding if I tell you what is whispered." Cesar shakes his head, sitting back, and begins to recount the rumours. "The Bard of the Blight and two Grey Wardens - one of them the current Warden-Commander of Antiva and a member of the Blight Alliance, the other a mage - were seen entering Marcello's lamp shop, along with a woman who was clearly accompanied by a Ferelden Mabari, and wearing the armour of the late Hero." I feel my jaw tighten, and fight not to grit my teeth. Someone saw us, despite how careful I was trying to be. I was too distracted by my desperation, I guess. Cesar pauses, watching me react, then takes another breath, going on in a much softer tone.

"Consider what was found: an entire cell - forty strong - slaughtered over the course of a handful of minutes - so quickly that there was no time for them to raise an alarm." Had it been so short a time? It felt like an eternity. "There were signs of Crow tactics, although not entirely, which spoke of one who had been only partially Guild-trained. The only people who fit that description are dead apprentices, and _you_. Even here, the Blight tales have reached. All of them say the Templar was her constant companion, and none of them save the fall of Kinloch speak of the Hero without the tattooed assassin at her side, as well." It's true - Alistair and Zev were always, always with me. I never took them out of my party, because every time I did, I got my ass handed to me and had to start over. "Who would have only _some_ of the Guild's skills? Who could gain such assistance from the Warden-Commander himself? Who would be so thoroughly _merciless_ in pursuit of one stray Crow, the known consort of Lily Mahariel? None but the Hero herself. They say it was your ghost stalking those halls, and that none can stand against you. Your name is whispered in hushed tone, and the Guild trembles. None will touch the contract now, for it is folly to invite the wrath of the dead."

I've been trying so hard not to think about that night. All the eyes that glazed over, the look of fear on their faces, the stench of blood and death, the feel of sharpened steel ripping into me, the crunch of flesh and bone, the thuds of bodies hitting the floor, the sight of my lover in chains. It takes a conscious force of will to release my death-grip on the chair arms. "What do you want from us?" I grit out.

"Myself? I simply came here to speak with a friend, to ask after some disturbing rumours. Finding that the rumours are true, well, that is a little beyond the scope of my business today. So, let me simply say this: there is a certain woman, a _pelle pittore_, on the _strada rosa_, who-"

"_No_," Zev suddenly snaps. "We will _not_ drag her into this." Cesar holds up his hands in a gesture for peace.

"_Pace, amico_, we can always discuss other ideas, yes?" he says, his tone gone soothing, but Zev's shoulders do not relax at all. "I simply wish to suggest a place to meet where you will feel safe enough to do so. I thought perhaps you would feel more comfortable in a house that-"

"_Zitto!_" Zevran hisses, and I can feel my brows furrow. Who is this woman, that Zev doesn't even want Cesar _talking_ about her? "You will not even _think_ of her. We are clear, yes?" The set of my lover's body is practically shouting menace, and Cesar's eyebrows crawl up nearly to his hairline.

"_Sì, sì, calmare_, it is enough, I understand. Choose a venue of your own, and we shall meet there, yes? Simply give a note to Enzo. I will leave instructions with him as to where to take it, and all will be well, yes? I know Ignacio will wish to speak with you."

There is a pause, and I can tell by the way Zev has gone completely motionless that he's quivering on the edge of mayhem, here. "Cesar," I begin, meaning to tell him that we will have to discuss it, but Zev interrupts.

"Fine. Get out, and if I see you again before the appointed time, I will assume the worst. We are clear, yes?"

Cesar nods, and I rise as he does. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the fact of my existence is somewhat of a... secret," I say, and Cesar laughs.

"The rumour serves us quite well, and I've no wish to quash it. The more lurid and frightening the tale becomes, the better we will all be for it. Who would dare attack a vengeful ghost? None but the Hero of Ferelden. And if the ghost _is_ the Hero? A terrifying prospect. It is a rare moment, that something has the _Crows_ running scared, yes? A moment to take advantage of." Cesar straightens his vest, then quite deliberately turns his back on us to open the library door. "It was most pleasant speaking with you. May fair fortune find you, until we meet again." And then he is gone.

"_Shit_" I whisper under my breath, sitting down heavily and dropping my face into my hands. A warm touch on my shoulder precedes Zev's amused tone.

"Merciless, hm?" he murmurs, and I laugh mirthlessly.

"Yeah, well... I was kind of... upset."

He tugs my hands away from my face, and I find him crouched before me. He smiles, and I can't help but return it. "Ah, _ragazza mia_, it is the ways in which you have not changed that surprise me the most, sometimes," he murmurs. In the next moment, his lips are pressed to mine, and I forget, for a time, anything beyond the scent and feel of him in my arms.


	13. Stones, Bones, Echoes, and Lies

"What about the dresses you've been working on?" I ask querulously as Leliana turns me around again, taking my measurements with lengths of string. She clucks her tongue and shakes her head.

"You _could_ wear them, yes, but they are not meant for blending in, as they are mostly of Ferelden design, though I did borrow some of your sketches for the embroidery. For this endeavour, you will need much simpler fare. I intend to visit to the market later, so I will purchase everything then."

I blink, surprised. "My sketches?"

She glances up at me from her position on the floor, where she's been measuring the length of my leg, her brow furrowing. "Yes... Do you not remember? In Orzammar, you grew tired of the blocky designs of the dwarven kingdom, and lamented the lack of curves. Hmmm... how did you put it?" she muses, putting a finger to her lips as the string dangles from her fingers, pinched to mark her place. "I believe you said, 'The only curves in Orzammar are on the women'!" She laughs, rising, and I laugh with her. This is news to me, but it sounds like something I'd say. "It was a long night, waiting for news from the Shaperate, so we passed the time in Tapster's drawing dress designs in your book."

I shake my head, bemused. "I wish I did. I haven't... opened it... in a long time."

Leliana gives me a level look, measuring the string between her fingers. "There are a great many things you do not remember."

I turn red, embarrassed, caught. "Uh... yeah."

"Things you ought to remember," she adds, stretching my arm out to the side so that she can measure from shoulder to wrist, and I bite my lip. Pinching off the string at my wrist and running it through her fingers, she looks back up at me, and the sweetness and innocence that is her usual mask has been replaced by the shrewd and insightful woman she really is. "You've actually never opened that book at all," she says, matter-of-fact.

I feel my mouth drop open a bit in surprise, and she purses her lips, eyeing me critically. "Who are you, really?" she asks, and the bottom drops out of my stomach.

"I'm Lily," I say, helplessly, though I know that's not the entire truth, and she does, too. Sighing, I rub at my forehead.

"Yes, I know _that_ - anyone who knows you can see this is true - but you are also not Lily at all," she points out reasonably, as she circles around behind me to measure the width of my shoulders.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. This woman is supposed to be... no, _is_ my best friend. It would be exceedingly stupid not to confide in her. "You're right," I concede. "I'm not Lily Mahariel anymore. She's dead. I'm Lily Maxwell... and... I'm... I'm a carpenter, by trade." There is silence as I feel her hands stretching the string between the base of my neck and my waist. I shift uncomfortably, and since she's being quiet, I just keep babbling. "I lived in a house by the sea, with a man who- who- couldn't keep his hands to himself when he was angry. And... it was really easy to make him angry. He almost killed me when he found out about Zev. After I died here, I... ran from him, despairing and hollowed by the loss of all that I held, but there was a storm, and then the ocean swallowed me up before I knew I'd gone too close. The next thing I knew, Zev was fishing me out again and... well, you know the rest."

"How can it be that you were two places at once? And why did you never tell us?" she finally asks, and I sigh.

"Zev asked me the same thing, and... Wait, actually, you know what? There's this poem I learned when I was a kid, and it's by one of my favourite poets; it describes my situation here perfectly." I screw up my face, trying to remember what I'd memorized as a teenager. I couldn't tell _The Raven_ anymore, nor _Annabelle Lee_, but I always liked this one best. "It's called _A Dream Within a Dream_, by a poet named Poe. Let's see... how did it start..."  
_  
Take this kiss upon the brow!  
And, in parting from you now,  
Thus much let me avow-  
You are not wrong, who deem  
That my days have been a dream;  
Yet if hope has flown away  
In a night, or in a day,  
In a vision, or in none,  
Is it therefore the less gone?  
All that we see or seem  
Is but a dream within a dream._

I stand amid the roar  
Of a surf-tormented shore,  
And I hold within my hand  
Grains of the golden sand-  
How few! yet how they creep  
Through my fingers to the deep,  
While I weep- while I weep!  
O God! can I not grasp  
Them with a tighter clasp?  
O God! can I not save  
One from the pitiless wave?  
Is all that we see or seem  
But a dream within a dream?  
  
It is quiet for a while, so, to break the silence, I say, "To the people of my land, Thedas is just a myth, a dream, and all my life here was only so much mist and memory, not worthy of the misery it caused me when it suddenly ended, leaving me alone on the wrong side of an uncrossable divide. What would be the point in mourning the loss of a dream? I'd've been locked away as a lunatic if I'd talked about it. Yet what else could I do? What I feel is real, what I did here was real... it's just a life I lived through another pair of hands, another pair of eyes. I couldn't be here myself, so I came the only way I could. And when my life ended... I nearly died in truth." I swallow hard. "Time moves differently here than it does there... Three days passed for me, after that, while a year slipped away here."

"Hmmm..." she murmurs, her voice in my ear as her arms come about my waist. "If that is true, then you only knew us for... what, two weeks?"

I bite my lip, glad she is behind me. That's... far too close to true. "I was here. Lily Mahariel was half of my soul, my other self. In every way of being - who I am, what I think, how I feel, the things I say and do - she's me, and I'm her. But... because of the way that time moves, and because my soul was split, I wasn't always fully conscious of what was happening here. There's so much I know, but there's also a lot I don't. Take the night in question, at Tapster's - the designs are entirely mine, the words I spoke, definitely something I thought, and something I would say, but the memory associated with it died with the half of my soul that was burned away by the archdemon." Sighing, I turn and pull on the tunic that's been draped over the back of a chair, waiting for me, as Leliana leans over the desk to make a few notes on a piece of parchment.

"There are a great many mysteries in the world that I'll never understand. How I managed to live two lives at once is one of them, as no-one should be able to do that. Yet, here I am. And that - my being here - is another question with no certain answer."

"People don't travel between here and there," she ventures, and I nod.

"Never. Well, actually, now that I think of it, I don't know, but not that I've ever heard of. Lots of people mysteriously go missing, y'know, and I'm sure that happens here, too. Who knows what happens to them? We always assume some misadventure, or they just ran from their lives, but what if they travelled to another place, a place that can only be randomly reached by the whim of the gods or an accident of fate?" I shake my head, grimacing. "If it weren't for my connection to Zev, I'd be dead entirely. He saved my life. Again."

"Hmm... And you, his," she murmurs. I suspect that this is meant to be reassuring, but it really, really scares me. I try very hard not to think about the fact that I'm the weaker partner here, by far. Of the two of us, I'm the one most likely to get us killed.

Lels doesn't ask me any more questions, but I can see she is troubled as she leaves for the market later that afternoon, Anders in tow. The way those two go about together, I wonder if maybe there's more to them than it would appear, but who knows.

She returns several hours later, chirpy and giggling, with an armload of packages. Closeted alone with her, she makes me try on four different outfits, paints my face twice before she's satisfied with it, and then does up my hair. When she stands me in front of the mirror, I barely recognize myself. The way she's got me dressed, is something I never would have chosen for myself. She's got me in several layers of gauzy sage greens, draped like a Roman goddess, my hair piled up on my head and enamelled gold jewellery at my neck and wrists. She pauses, an earring in her hand, as she brushes my hair away from my ear, and I feel a wry smile curve my lips as her eyes widen in surprise.

"Yeaaah... I don't have my ears pierced," I say, ruefully. I always wanted to, but... well, that was an ill-fated adventure, and I just never quite got around to doing it again properly.

She leans back, her eyes going a little calculating with wary confusion, before being instantly smoothed over with her usual mask of innocence. Something's not right here, and as she shows me several pairs of sandals, it occurs to me: the Earring. I can feel myself going pale, but Lels affects not to notice, handing over the pair that seems like it will best fit.

Do I dare ask after it?

Actually... No.

Gods, I'm a coward.

"Thank you," I murmur, heartfelt, and she nods. I put on a pair of strappy flats and Leliana opens the door for me with a smile that seems a little false around the edges, but I think maybe she's just worried and stressed over it, same as me. I don't think she has decided to mistrust or dislike me. I hope. I can't worry about that now. Just another thing to stuff in the box labelled: Stuff to Worry About Later (If Ever).

"Ah, _cara_, there you are," Zev says, rising from the bench in our room as he looks me up and down, and I blush. "You look fine; you are lovely - a vision," he says, when I look at him askance. "You are so beautiful, poets will be struck speechless, painters shall weep, and sculptors give up in despair of ever capturing your perfection," he adds, when I fidget self-consciously, and I laugh. The genuine smile that spreads across his face distracts me, and I dimly register Leliana moving toward the door and leaving the room a moment before Zev closes the distance between us. As ever, everything I worry over is swept clean out of my head by the heat of his hands at my waist and the press of his lips against mine, and for an all-too-brief eternity, I am lost. He draws back, and I have to let him, regretfully, not quite able to repress the tiny little whimper of frustrated desire that escapes me, bringing a knowing smirk to his face.

I am nervous leaving the Warden compound. I'm inclined to feel safe, just from Zev's presence at my side, but I know the comfort is false, and I have to stop and take a deep breath before we step out the doors. It's not like I haven't been outside before, but I had Alistair, Lels, and Anders behind me at that point, and that was _before_ the... the Night I Do Not Think About. I shake my hands at my sides, like shedding water from them, and close my eyes, relaxing my shoulders by a conscious force of will. This is just like the moment before I'd walk on stage: settle, breathe, relax, and don your persona. Settle, breathe, relax- "Let's go," I murmur as I feel Zev come up beside me, and he opens the door, his hand at the small of my back.

The streets of Antiva are paved randomly with many different materials. Some are cobbled, some are paved with flagstones, others with bricks. The _Strada Rosa_ is apparently so named because it is paved with some kind of pinkish sandstone-like material with a high mica content. Little shops and cafes line the street in both directions, and hanging gardens from the balconies above provide a decent amount of shade.

Oh, sunblock. Another thing to add to the list of things I miss. I hate the sun.

The scents of coffee and baked goods penetrate my senses, and my mouth waters. "Oooh, coffee," I murmur, breathing deep. Zev tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow, his stride a picture of ease, as he leads me toward one of these little cafes.

"We will stop for a little something," he says conversationally, approaching the entrance. The building is two stories, white stucco on top and mural-painted below. The windows are just wide open rectangles, the size of a typical shop window, with shutters and awnings set up on wooden legs that can apparently be folded down to close the place up for the night. The doorway, too, is open, though rather than simple openings, this has an intricately carved frame around it. I study the vines and flowers as we pass through it, looking at the tool marks that were made as the artisan carved into the darkened wood. Little square tables with benches to either side sit outside under the awnings, and a bench runs around the inside walls, more of those little tables and benches scattered around the room haphazardly.

I take care to only glance around once, because I don't want to call attention to the fact that I'm an outsider, here. The place is busy, but not overly crowded; a pair of older ladies with scarves over their hair play some kind of game involving cards, dice, and copper pieces; a young mother feeds a baby a piece of pastry; two old gentleman friends talk companionably over coffee; a courting couple with only one slice of cake between them glance at each other with heat in every visibly smouldering breath.

At the counter, Zev orders coffee and pastry for both of us, and I'm pleasantly surprised to find orange biscotti being pressed into my hand, along with a cup of incredibly mellow, faintly sweet and slightly tart coffee. It's not sweetened, no, but more like a jasmine tea is sweet - naturally. I hum with pleasure as Zev steers us to a window seat, and we sit, half-turned toward the street. He is looking at me, but I can tell that his attention is actually focused on something across the way.

A cool breeze blows in the window, lifting the curtain. All the windows along the street are hung with brightly coloured fabrics that, at a guess, are batik dyed. The women in the streets carry these large, oval-shaped floppy baskets that can be folded in half and carried via their leather, braided handles, but the frame also seems to be strong enough that cargo of lighter weights can be carried on them flat. It's fairly easy to see a separation in the social strata by dress. The poor tend toward simple linen, belted tunics and loose dojo-style pants or tiered skirts. Most of these are made of plain fabrics that are either dyed or decorated with fanciful embroidery at hemlines. The women wear their hair up under loosely-knotted, fringed scarves or just pulled back and tied with a thong, and the men seem to favour clean-shaven cheeks over beards. In this climate, I'm not surprised. They all tend to go about in simple canvas slippers or leather sandals for those who had by some manner gained enough coin to afford them.

Those of some modest means - what I guess would be the 'middle class' - are dressed such as we are, in slightly higher quality fabrics, sometimes with checkers, stripes, and mad paisley patterns woven in, and far more colour. The women wear gauzy Roman drapes and Grecian hair, like some kind of pre-Raphaelite wet dream, and a lot of the same kind of enamelled jewellery I've got on, painted sort of like cloisonné. Most of the women wear some kind of heeled sandal, and the men tend toward closed-toe gladiators. It's the rich one that I spot who's the easiest to pick out. Some banty lordling struts along, clearly slumming it, a couple of his friends trailing along behind, and they go into a little shop across the way. They were the most obviously dressed, in dark, vibrant colours and well-tailored clothes, high-quality leather half boots on their feet and swords at their sides. Very few of the people here actually carry weaponry openly; in fact, now that I think of it, aside from the occasional utility-knife, the only people who do are either people wearing livery or those who look to be some kind of nobility.

Hmm... no wonder we attracted so much attention when we went into the lamp shop. Damn.

"There is something I have been meaning to speak with you about," Zev begins, and I realize he's been turning his cup in his hands. It's the fact he's nervous that actually gets my attention. "Ah... Do you recall anything of what I said about how I grew up?"

I nod. "Yes. I remember the important stuff, just not all the little moments in between." I wait a moment, but he remains silent, so I reach out and lay my fingers across his, halting another revolution of the cup and making him look up at me. "What is it?"

"The fortune teller," he says, and I watch his eyes swirling with turmoil and pain. "She had a daughter, and since she was born in the whorehouse, they intended for her to die there, as well. Before she died, that woman asked me to save her daughter, any way I could. So... I bought her."

I blink. He doesn't own a slave - wouldn't - so where is she? Ah... The skin painter on pink street. The one he was so protective of. Suddenly it all makes sense. I sit back and take another sip of my coffee. "Mmh. Okay. So when are we going in?"

It's his turn to look surprised. "I did not think you would be so sanguine with the idea of me owning a slave," he says warily, and I smirk.

"You don't. You bought the debts of a woman who deserved to be free, and now she is." I shrug. "That actually seems very like you."

He is only half relieved. "Ah, but that is not all." I arch an eyebrow, and he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "There are certain things expected of someone who has a slave..." He grimaces, looking out the window again, and I begin to have a feeling I know where this is going. "My... _family_ were watching me very closely, you see, and so I could do nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that seemed to show special attachment. I thought to protect her, it was needful that I be cruel in some manner."

Now _that_ is not quite what I had expected, actually. "You hurt her?"

He winces, sitting back. "You must understand I was a much younger man at the time. I lacked subtlety."

I swallow. His idea of cruelty could be hard as stone and sharp as shattered glass. "What did you do?" He hesitates, and I say, "If we're to go in there, I want to know what I'm walking into, that's all. Whatever happened, my opinion of you's already been formed, based on who you've been since I met you. I won't get angry at ghosts and echoes of a life you left behind. You're not that person anymore."

The look he gives me tells me he is weighing me carefully, and I wonder how much he doesn't say, either. We've both got closets full of bones, but his closet is... much bigger than mine. I don't think I want to be Bluebeard's wife. "Ah, but it is not a ghost, nor an echo, that is the problem," he says, looking down into his coffee as though that shallow darkness will hold some answers for him. Does she harbour some grudge against him? If she's technically a slave, is it possible for her to purchase a contract? Brooding, Zev looks up and out into the street again, then suddenly says, "There, just now, do you see him?"

A young man, I'd say early twenties, carries a heavy, canvas-wrapped burden on his back. He's tall, maybe about six inches taller than me, though he is stooped under the weight of his load. He has long legs, strong shoulders, and long, white-blond hair; he ducks into the tattoo parlour across the street, the beaded curtain swinging back together behind him. "Oh." That's about as coherent as I can be. So it _was_ about a baby. "I expected that, actually," I say, taking another bite of my biscotti.

His gaze swings back to mine, and his lip curls in almost a snarl, though he keeps his voice down. "You _expected_ me to abandon my own child?" he asks.

I blink, taken aback. "Uh... Wow, no, calm down. If I truly thought you were that sort of man, I'd've had Anders fix it so I'd never have to worry about it. Which I _didn't_," I amend quickly, as his face darkens with wariness, "Actually, quite the opposite, but that's not the point here. What I _expected_ was that circumstances with your family would have forced you to do it, and that was the only thing I could think of that would have you so twisted up in knots about going in there to see her."

He rubs at his forehead with one hand, and I reach out to him again, but before I can speak, he says, "She is the one who did my tattoos."

"What, all of them?" I ask, and he nods.

"Most, yes. A few I did myself, but I learned the art from her." He finishes off his coffee and sighs. "I do not wish to go in there, _cara_," he murmurs, and I chuckle softly, scooting closer to him.

"Ah, my man, laughs in the face of danger, yet quails at the thought of a tongue-lashing from a tattoo artist." I wrap my arm around his waist and tuck my head into his shoulder, sipping at my coffee again as the tension in his shoulders eases a bit, and he laughs with me.

"Hmm, just so. You may have noticed I am ill-suited to dealing with matters of the heart."

"Oh, I don't know about that... you do just fine with mine... But I understand what you mean. Look, we'll go in, see what happens, and if it's bad, we'll just leave." I look up, see the crease of worry between his eyebrows, and run my finger from his hairline down to the tip of his nose. "Shh... Whatever happens, we're in it together, right?" He catches my wrist and presses a kiss to my palm, his eyes tightly closed for a moment, but the look he gives me after is fierce.

"_Sì, amora mia_. There is nothing I cannot face, with you at my side," he says, cupping my cheek in his hand. Ah, crap, 'cause _that's_ not intimidating. Gods, let me live up to that. I give him a brave smile, anyway, because at least in this, I'm not expecting there to be anything particularly scary. Not for me, anyway. I hope.

Zev rises, holding his hand out to me, and I stand with him, dusting the crumbs off my skirt and trying not to tug too much at my clothing. We link arms as we are leaving the little cafe, and slowly make our way through the crush of bodies to the other side of the street. The blond man leaves the shop, just as we close in, and doesn't give us a second glance. We're just people in the street, to him. That, too, tells me something. Zev holds the curtain aside for me with his arm, and I enter the dimly-lit shop.

The place is hung with fabrics and scattered with pillows, looking like the inside of a harem tent. Little low tables sit around the edges of the room, holding candles and an assortment of oils, incenses, and other, less identifiable things. A beautiful black-haired woman comes out from behind a curtain in the back of the shop and stops dead, staring at us. Her hazel eyes flash with fierceness and pride. "_So. You have returned,"_ she says in Antivan, her voice smoky and low. I don't move, not wanting to call attention to myself, watching the exchange between them.

"No."

She blinks, apparently stunned. "No," she echoes, and the look on her face makes me think maybe I shouldn't be here for this, except that Zev brought me here on purpose. "_Then who is this I see before me?"_

"_I am no one. A ghost."_

"_A ghost."_ Just how long has it been since they've seen each other? Can it be that he hasn't been back at all? She swallows, then blinks, shaking her head, coming back to herself. "_Why haunt me now?"_

"_I have come about the ink."_ The way her eyes widen when he says that tells me that maybe it's "Ink" with a capital "I".

Just then I feel her pin me, looking at me carefully, but I've been glancing around the room, checking the place out, and am currently looking at a painting to her left, which is a remarkably Parrish-style sunset with a Botticelli nude reclining on a river bank. I hope I get a chance to get closer to it. I glance at her casually without flinching, hard as that is to accomplish, but I just take a breath, and say in Common, "That's a beautiful painting; who's the artist?"

She blinks, then gives me what I suspect is her professional smile. "Ah, dear lady, that is one of my own," she says, and I know she can see the unfeigned respect in me.

"You're amazing," I tell her, sincerely. "I love it."

"Thank you," she says, nodding at my praise. "_She is from the land of dogs,"_ the woman says in Italian, and Zev shrugs. "_And she knows nothing. You bring her here, and she knows nothing."_ The woman snorts, settling into a chair, and Zev looks almost grim. I busy myself looking at the patterns on the cushions. Some of them are woven, but most are dyed. Interesting... Better supply to demand that way. Artisans get to be as creative as they wish, and the weavers can just concentrate on turning out the fabric. The woven tapestry stuff must be specialty.

"_But I know,"_ Zev says, "_And you owe me a life."_

A life? I crouch down, fingering the fringe on the edge of the rug. It looks silky, but is actually quite coarse, like it's made from wool. "_I owe you nothing. You abandoned me when I was pregnant and never returned for more than twenty years, and now you come in here with some dog-worshipper, hoping that I will give you more Ink? You are out of your mind."_

Zev snorts. "_Hmm, yes... Such a thoroughly _natural _occurrence, for a barren woman and a man taking powders,"_ he says mildly, but it carries the sting of a whip lash, and she colours tellingly, struck momentarily silent.

"_Fine,"_ she hisses, but Zev shakes his head.

"_Tch, no. You can do better than that,"_ he says in that same mild tone, as I examine the pattern of knots on the fringe. Each bunch was divided four times, then three, then two for six rows, before being tied off into individual tassels. This must've taken hours upon hours of work. "_You sought the protection of the Crows by the most permanent means, which is fine; that is your right. However, that protection comes at a price, a price which was mine to exact, but that I have ignored for quite some time, as I did not intend to collect. What a small thing it is that I ask, in the face of such a debt, hmm?"_

The woman growls, but it is a capitulation. "_Yes, yes. It is simple enough."_ She sighs and opens a small box that has been sitting innocently upon the table at her elbow. "Come here, darling," she says to me, "Your friend wishes me to read your fortune." This is decidedly _not_ what they've been discussing, but I go along with it. Sitting upon an ottoman opposite her, I lay my hands on a tray she's got across her knees, as she directs. She surrounds them with stones and inscribed bones, in a very specific manner, and I recognize some of the stones and their uses from my own hedge-witchery.

Amethyst for the astral connection and maybe for the cleansing; blue topaz (or maybe that's tourmaline... hard to tell) for communication and insight, either way; quartz for balance and cleansing, and maybe for the amplification. This is a veritable powerhouse of stones here, and as my fingers begin to tingle, I feel the pentacle at my neck growing hot, and snatch my hands back at the same moment that she gasps and looks up at me sharply. "You have an amulet?" she asks, her professional smile firmly in place. "You must remove it before we can do this."

I look to Zev, but he seems unconcerned, so I reach up and unclasp it, then hand it over to him. She watches with a hawk's eye, and as I pass it over, I see her eyes widen. "What?"

The look she gives me is more than a little speculative. "Where do your amulets come from?"

I arch an eyebrow. "They all come from my homeland." Let her make of that what she will. If she wants to assume that's Ferelden, that's okay with me.

"May I examine them? Sometimes the amulets and spells people wear will change the outcome of any fortunes I may foresee."

I shrug. "Sure." Zev lays the necklace in her hand, and she peers closely at my little talismans, though I notice that she doesn't actually touch them. Aside from the simple silver pentacle that I've been wearing since I was sixteen, I've got a spiral that was made from pre-historic mammoth tusk by some Aleuts (both of them about the size of a quarter), and an amethyst that I wrapped in silver, both for its properties and because it's my birth stone. They're all strung on a thin rope chain that I ordered online from some silver merchant in Italy. Honestly, I forget I'm wearing them, even though I have a tendency to worry at the spiral when I'm nervous.

"I do not recognize the stone, here," she says, pointing to the spiral, and I shake my head.

"Not a stone. It's fossilized bone."

"Fossilized?" she asks, the word clearly unfamiliar in her mouth, and I nod.

"Yeah, uh... bone buried in the ground so long that it's turned to stone. From the ancient animals that lived millions upon millions of years ago, before there were people." They're both staring at me like I've just grown a second head, and I shift uncomfortably. "The scholars of my land have discovered many things."

After a moment, she says, "This magic is very, very old, and protects you strongly. I've never seen its like."

I blink. My little spiral? Auntie Leah sent it to me for Yule one year. It probably only cost her something like twenty bucks. How... weird. "Uh... Oh. I didn't know it was magic," I say, lamely, and she stares at me a moment longer, before she goes speculative on me again, but she hands the necklace back to Zev.

"All of your amulets are magic," she says, watching my reaction, and this is somewhat of a surprise. Then again, they were supposedly magical at home, too, but that was more an article of faith than a hard fact, like it is here. I smile.

"Oh. Well, that's good to know... I've been wearing them so long, I forget they're there, sometimes." Maybe that's what protected me enough to let me reach here. I place my hands back on the board, and she takes a deep breath, refocusing. My hands start to tingle again as hers hover over mine, and the shivering continues up my arms, making my hair stand on end as it prickles across my scalp. I close my eyes and breathe carefully, but something is burning my third eye, so I centre and focus, like I do for meditation, and I hear her breath hitch. When I have imagined my mental and emotional defences, I have seen them as a brick wall, impregnable, and I surround myself with it, whenever I am doing a meditation for strength. This time, I imagine a door in the wall, and I open it, with the express intention of allowing her access.

The tingling ignites into a roaring flame, yet it does not burn me, and I hear her gasp in surprise at the same moment Zev does. I can't open my eyes yet, though, because I'm still struggling to hang on to my defences and only leave that tiny portal open for the woman across from me. It does not take long for the pressure to become unbearable, and I quickly slam the door, imagining the bricks closing over it again, whole and unmarked from the intrusion. The pressure is gone, and the burning subsides to tingle again, and then is gone. I let out a shaking breath and open my eyes.

Both of them are staring at me.

I look from one to the other, and then, "What?" Neither of them want to answer me at first, which doesn't bode well.

"Ah... You were glowing," Zev says, after a moment, and I can feel the blood drain out of my face. I do _not_ want to be a mage. I'm not a mage. I'm just a misplaced kitchen-witch. I don't have _real_ magic, I just know my way around herbs and stones. And cards. Shit!

I laugh, weakly. "Haha, weird." I swallow, then look at the woman. "Uh, so did you see anything?"

She shakes her head, but it's not a negation, and I feel my heart clench. "There is much darkness ahead. I see death, despair, heartbreak and sorrow. But I also saw a tiny little fluttering of light, elusive. You must tread carefully, lest that light be snuffed out by one wrong step."

Zev and the woman look at each other, and I can see them having a silent conversation. At last, she says, "_Yes, I see, and I will mark her."_

Zev turns to me, knowing I've heard and understood everything, and says, "I've asked her to give you a tattoo, _cara_; Ferrilinn can enchant inks." He flashes me a grin, and I realize that his own personal luck might be tied into the ink she laid into his skin. No wonder he brought me here.

I take a deep breath and nod. "Okay. Just... _vallaslin'din._"

Zev shakes his head as the woman's brow furrows. "No, I swear to you," he assures me. Not the face. I take another deep breath, and he nods to the woman, who has been sweeping her stones and bones back into the box; she sets aside the board and disappears into the back of the shop.

Zev crouches down next to me, taking my hand. "This is a day for secrets revealed, _cara_, for I have something else to tell you, as well." I feel a small cloth pouch pressed into my hand as his withdraws, and I look down. Opening it, I find a single earring inside, hung with a red jewel, and my heart suddenly hammers in my chest. My eyes snap back up to Zev, who looks nervous, and I know the shock is written all over my face. "Will you still consent to wear it?"

I stare at him, momentarily tongue-tied. Whaaat? "I've been despairing its loss all this time," I whisper, my voice deserting me, and the shadow of a smile plays about his lips. "Please," I beg, "When can you put it back?"

"I thought that now would be a very good time, while Ferrilinn lays the ink into you that will keep you safer by my side."

"Good," I say, simply, as the woman in question returns with a tray full of ink pots and a simple tap-comb tattoo stick. "What pattern will I have?"

She looks between the two of us, and sudden understanding lights her eyes. "You have seen his, yes? Yours will be laid to suit your soul, the same as his." She sets the tray aside and busily arranges a bunch of cushions on the floor, then motions toward them. "Please, remove your dress and lie down," she instructs as she moves across the room. Pulling aside the beaded curtain, she closes the door and bolts it. I loose the ties at the waist and shoulders that keep my dress in place as Zev tugs away the belts, and the pile of cloth puddles around my feet, leaving me standing there suddenly in my panties and bra without warning. Zev laughs at my surprise and I stick my tongue out at him as I unclasp my bra. With only a moment's hesitation, I take off my panties as well, and stretch out on the floor.

I try to take deep breaths and relax as I feel them settling on either side of me. I feel Zev's hands in my hair, pulling it up and off of my neck, twisting it up and piling it out of the way. "Do you wish some poppy smoke, before I begin?" Ferrilinn asks, as I hear the clink of bottles, and I shake my head.

"No, no please, I'm deathly allergic to it." There's a pause, and I wonder if people _have_ allergies here. "Uh, but I like cannabis..." I venture, as the sounds resume.

"I do not recognize this name," she murmurs, and I shift, holding up a hand.

"The leaves splay, like this, and it has dense green buds..."

"Ahhh, ganja," she says, and I nod.

"I wasn't sure what it was called here," I admit, and she hums.

Within moments, the sweet smoke invades my senses, and I breathe deep, as the familiar relaxed state of well-being comes over me. With my senses gently muddled, I barely flinch when the needles touch my skin, and then the tapping begins. I focus on my breathing and the sensation of the cushions beneath me, the feel of Zev's hands in my hair and the scent of the smoke as Ferrilinn lays burning trails across my skin, snaking from just shy of the side of my breast, across my back, and curling over one hip. It does not escape my notice that one of the lines traces right over where the curve used to be in my spine. Tattooed to the shape of my soul, she said. Somewhere in the middle of all this, Zev pierced my ear, but I never felt it.

There is a hazy period where I drift in and out of consciousness, until finally I am roused by Ferrilinn's voice. "_It is finished_," she says, her voice tired.

"_Thank you,"_ Zev says, and I hear her snort.

"_I did not do it for you, but for her sake. I do not know what you have done, and I do not wish to know, but her end is so securely tied to yours, she needed the protection."_ I stop myself just shy of responding to that with a question. Zev hasn't told her I speak Antivan, so I'm not going to tip our hand. "Rest for a while, _ragazza_, while I heal the lines," she says, and I nod. I feel the heat from her hands passing over my skin, above the lines she has laid, and slowly, the burning from them fades away. It is nothing like the power I feel from Anders; his flows like water, or warms like the sun. This is... a quiet thing, a small thing, a little like smoothing aloe over a burn.

I hear her moving out of the room again, and Zev leans down to whisper in my ear. "_Sei tutto per me, moglie mia,"_ he says, stopping my heart. _You are everything to me, my wife._

Wife?

_Wife._

The earring. The _earring_. Oh gods.

That... explains a lot...


	14. Blind Chess

The sun hangs heavy on the horizon when we step out of Ferrilinn's parlour, and Zev looks up at it, pensively. "The day grows old; we must make haste," he murmurs. The street is extremely crowded now, so many people that it surprises me, and I stick close to his side as we make our way into the crush.

Raucous laughter and loud talking, the smell of bread and incense, and a dazzling glitter of coloured lantern-light heralds the sudden opening of a heavy wood door that serves as the entrance to some sort of tavern. Couples and friends emerge, talking excitedly about the musicians who just played within, and smelling strongly of alcohol. The tide of people threatens to pull me away, so I catch at Zev's hand, but only manage to brush the edge of his sleeve before I'm pushed away from him by an interposing mob of obnoxious, laughing, drunken men who come spilling out into the street. I swallow the immediate panic that blooms in my breast as they surround, cat-call, and grope me, frantically dancing away from them. I try to get around their group and back to Zev, but avoiding them pushes me more toward the middle of the street, and then I'm flailing, spinning dizzily, trying to extricate myself from the crowds.

Strong arms suddenly catch me about the waist, and I yelp, struggling, until I hear his voice murmuring in my ear, "Shh, _cara_, I am here," and all the fight goes out of me at once.

I let out a shuddering breath, trying to swallow my adrenaline rush as Zev pulls me into an alley, away from the crush. I hate crowds. I _really_ hate crowds. I follow along after him, my hand securely wrapped by his, through the deepening dark as the sound of the busy street fades behind us, and try to focus my breathing so I don't hyperventilate. The back-streets are much less intimidating, much less travelled, and soon there are so few people about, we are virtually alone in the night.

The feel of water in the air reaches me just moments before I find myself surrounded by greenery. A stream burbles quietly to itself somewhere nearby and the scent of flowers and trees washes over me, bringing a calm of its own. In the darkness of the garden- park- wherever it is that we might be, Zev pulls me under an arbour wound about with vines, and I immediately cling to him, trembling with the after-effects of my wild fear and the casual violation of the men in the street, so many hands all over me all at once. "I was scared, for a moment there," I whisper, just grateful to be safe in his arms again, and I can feel him smile against my neck.

"I would never lose sight of you, _cara_," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of my throat, making me shiver for an entirely different reason. After all that sudden fear, my simple flutter of desire roars over me, consuming me, and his whispered laugh of surprise tells me that I shouldn't play poker. Well, since he can read me so easily, let him read this: pulling back, I thread my fingers into his hair and kiss him passionately. He makes another small hum of surprise, quickly turning to a growl of interest as I press closer, and his arms tighten around me. After a moment, he begins backing up, pulling me along with him, until I feel us fetch up against a bench.

Breaking away, Zev bends his head to my chest, splaying his hands across my lower back; I gasp, my head lolling as I arch toward him breathlessly. His kisses sear my skin as his hands travel lower, stroking my thighs, and I whimper, my fingers curling in his hair. The heady scent of sun-warmed flowers and earth lays upon my skin, a subtle pressure to the air that settles on my shoulders like a mantle of night. The cool breeze that washes across my calves tells me that my hemline is slowly rising; when it reaches my knees, I push him back so he sits, so I can straddle his hips, the stone of the bench cool against my shins as my dress rucks up almost to my waist. Pausing, my breasts in his face and his hands at my hips, I hover over him with my hands on his shoulders, and he leans against the back of the arbour, looking up at me with a quirked brow. Slowly, deliberately, I roll my hips downward against him, watching his expression change as my thigh presses tightly against his thickening cock. I feel the smile spread over my face as his eyes close briefly, his brow furrowing just the tiniest bit. These little signs of the effect I'm able to have on him always fill me with... well, pride, that I _can_ make him feel that way, that he _wants_ me to.

I lean down, running my tongue along the edge of his ear, and am rewarded with his loss of breath, and an actual _shiver_. "Mmh," I hum, kissing the little hollow behind his jaw. "You called me 'wife', in there," I murmur, rolling my hips against him again, just in case he's not sure how I feel about it.

"Ah... hmmm... that I did," he concedes, his hand sliding up my thigh to pull my dress aside so that only two thin layers of cloth separate us.

"Mmm... I like the sound of that... When did that happen?" I ask, trying to hold in a giggle as the light brush of his fingers raises goosebumps along my skin. "Just now?"

"Oh, it has been true for quite some time... Several hours, perhaps," he says with a rich, mellow laugh that tugs at the fetters on my heart. "Since needles touched your flesh, certainly."

This shouldn't surprise me. There was something about the lines Ferrilinn etched in my skin that sizzled, and a strange thickness to the air; it had the feeling of something almost sacred, the way that moment on the beach was. So many links and strands binding us together; I've never been closer to anyone in my life, but it's still not enough, I need more. I crave his hands, his breath, the flex of his stomach and the burning heat of his skin against mine, so much it makes me tremble. Reaching down between us, my desperate fingers slide along his stomach, pushing his shirt up and out of the way so I can get to all the fiery skin beneath.

Zev kisses the side of my throat, teeth gently grazing me as my hands explore the planes of his chest and stomach. Touching his skin floods me with something akin to relief, even though it's still not enough. I wish for nothing more in this moment than someplace we could rid ourselves of all the suddenly oppressive clothing interfering, but for now, it is a stone slab for a bed, and the blanket of the night to hide us from prying eyes. Zev's hands glide up the insides of my thighs, rising higher with every hitch of my breath until I can feel his thumbs stroke over my covered mound. I shudder, whimpering, my fingers flexing against his sides as he nuzzles at my jaw, nibbling at me with soft lips.

My skin is aflame, I am drowning in the force of my desire, in the scent and feel of him. A touch, a kiss, and I'm lost. Always. I'm not exactly _easy_, but for him? I'm a wanton whore. I can't help it, not with him so near, almost close enough. I need him, I want him, I have to _have_ him. My hands obey my incoherent thought, sliding away from the exploration of his shoulders to the waist of his pants, diving down into that warm depth. Oh, the feel of him, thick and pulsing and _jumping_ in my grasp, at his reaction to my touch. My touch. _I_ do this to him. Thwarted just as I free him from the confines of his breeches, a firm nip to my shoulder takes me to task, sharp but not painful, and makes me jerk in his arms with an undignified little squeak. Oh, my Zev may be on the bottom, but he is the one entirely in control. He growls at me as my hands circle his hips, pushing his pants off of them, making room for us. "_Sempre così impaziente, cara mia. Rallentare,"_ he murmurs, making me whimper with frustration.

"Slow down?" I ask breathlessly, "Here? Now? Gods, Zev, explain to me how that's even _possible_." _I'm_ in a hurry? _He's_ the one who's forgotten to speak English.

The puff of a silent, huffing chuckle doesn't do much for my sanity, nor any attempt at regaining coherent thought, particularly not now that he's slid his fingers beneath my panties, stroking his thumbs down into my heat, silencing me effectively by stealing my breath. It's suddenly all I can do to hang on to him as my shaking threatens to spill me backward off the bench. I moan into his hair, lips tingling, and if his mouth wasn't so deliciously busy with my neck and shoulders, I would search it out. I need to occupy my mouth somehow, or I'm going to make enough noise to bring curious onlookers from the street, and the perfect point of his ear is sitting right there, just demanding that I lick it. How I love his ears... so different, so _him_, and no one else, never any one else.

And my need is so great, and his mouth is too far away, and I don't dare even think about his cock, so instead, my lips latch onto the tip of an ear. Sucking, flicking my tongue over and around the point, I've got just enough sense left in my head to try to hold my breath because no one likes to hear the squelching and heavy breathing, and I know his sense of hearing is so acute. There is a hitching pause that rapidly turns into a snarl against my neck, the flexible flesh of his ear snapping to attention and, at the same time, startling me by half-curling around my tongue. "The _ears_, woman!" he whispers fiercely, his voice harsh, "_Always_ with the _ears_!"

This fervent hiss is the only warning I have before the crotch of my panties is pulled aside, giving him the space to thrust two long fingers within. The abruptness of it is explosive and horrible and beautiful, making me arch, keening. "Zev!" I gasp as I curl back around him, aching, on fire for more than I can get my hands on, right now. "Oh gods, please," I whisper, all in a rush, beginning to chant in my desperation, "Oh gods, please, please Zev, ple-" I am cut off by something - I have no idea what he's doing - suddenly igniting to a white-hot blaze within me, making me strangle on a shriek that I try to hold in, almost - but not quite - successfully.

"Hmmm?" he rumbles, his mouth now occupied with the breast he's somehow managed to free from its confines, and I try to focus on just remembering how to breathe as my hands spasm, raking my nails across his shoulders. I buck downward against his hand, wanting, _needing_ more, and his free arm snakes around my lower back, holding me immobile against his chest as he plies my pearl mercilessly. I try to writhe, my shoulders twisting, my thighs tightening about his hips, but it's next to useless, as his tongue wrapping around my nipple and the steady rhythm of his fingers brings me closer and closer to the edge. It's when I start to make this high-pitched keen, whimpering in time to the thrust of his fingers, that he stops, leaving me shuddering and bereft.

Before I can protest with anything more than a breathless whine, he pulls me downward sharply, impaling me on his thick length without warning. I flail backward with the sudden explosion within me, blinded by my instant completion, and by the time I've gathered breath to scream, he's clamped his hand down over my mouth, stopping me from announcing our presence to the entire city. In the moment of silence between breaths, I hear him _groan_, quietly, almost under his breath, but he _does_, and the sound is so beyond sexy, it pulls me over the edge again. I sob, clinging to him tightly as I duck my head, capturing his mouth and kissing him passionately. And still he continues to roll under me, like riding the ocean swells, and I feel him thickening as he nears his own precipice.

I shudder for him, burying my face in his neck as my voice makes these hitching, breathy sobs. I spiral upward once more with him, and I hear him again, three sighing little moans that almost sound like questions, just the moment before I feel him flex strongly within me, and that heavy pulse combined with the sound of an actual, guttural moan, just shatters me completely. I sob again, and it does sound like I'm crying as I hold tightly to him, as tightly as he is clutching me.

The quiet of the night is even more-so now for having been broken by my barely muffled wailing. Suddenly realizing that there are many, many windows in the walls that ring this park, I begin giggling, embarrassed. No one may have seen us, but I'm pretty sure we were heard. Or, well, _I_ was.

Zev shifts under me with a quiet groan of dismay. "Ahhh... Stone benches. I'd nearly forgotten," he remarks, as I try to gather myself together, stuffing my breast back in and hitching up my skirts so I can try to disengage myself without getting my dress all sticky.

"What?" I ask distractedly as I realize my thighs are wobbly enough that my legs might not support me. I roll to the side, resting on my hip.

Zev shakes his head as he brushes his hair out of his face and looks over at me with a devilish smirk on his face. "Hmmm... Let me just say that I have developed a fond appreciation for the comforts of a bed, in the years since I could be considered truly young," he says, and I laugh. Considering how raw the skin of my shins and knees feels, I suspect this isn't something I'll want to repeat any time soon... at least, not setting-wise.

He toes off his boots and wriggles out of his pants, standing up in bare feet. His tunic falls past his hips, effectively - if barely - covering his nudity. Turning, he looks at me and arches a sardonic eyebrow. "Coming, _cara_?" he asks, and nonchalantly holds out his free hand to me. I hesitate, but only because I know I'm about to get really, really sticky. "I shall show you the stream," he adds, making my decision easy.

The water is cold but clear, and is only about ankle-deep. Pulling my dress up around my waist, carefully, I slide out of my panties and squat down, cleaning up quickly and rinsing out my underwear. Standing again, I look at them dubiously. If I wear them now, they'll make a wet triangle on my dress, front and back, and I simply cannot afford to show up to meet with Ignacio looking like that. Zev laughs. "Carry them; by the time we get where we are going, they will be dry enough." I can feel myself blushing, and as we leave the garden, I have to wonder whether I've got JBF hair, but I have faith that Zev won't let me walk in there looking a mess.

The moon is just rising as we come around the corner at the top of the street that leads down to the docks. I stop cold, staring, caught off-guard by the staggering beauty laid out before me. From behind, Zev's arm around my waist drags me off the street and into the darkness of a doorway, and I fetch up hard against him. The moonlight glitters off the ocean, a wide stripe of silver in a midnight blue so deep, so different from my lost iron grey and steel blue northern sea. The moon is surrounded in a halo of pale blue, it's so bright, lighting the bottoms of scudding clouds, so high they look like the ripples of sand that the receding ocean sometimes leaves behind. The night sky is a perfect indigo, and the stars winking from behind the clouds so many scattered diamonds. The breeze off the harbour brings the scent of the sea, that familiar stench of sun-baked seaweed and the crispness of the air, fresh with stories from far away lands and breathless with the tale of a squall perhaps no more than a day off.

"Luna," I murmur, a wordless prayer to the goddess blooming in my heart. My first, purest faith lay in the moon, the sun, the sky, the stars, the earth, the turning of the seasons, and the sea: the forces that governed my life, that have always governed my life, much to my mother's dismay, and my Cherokee grandmother's pride. What need have I for a cathedral? Surely, they are beautiful monuments, but they could never contain nor communicate the heartbreaking beauty and perfection that is the awesomeness of all creation.

Can this one hear me? "Hmm?" Zev whispers in my ear. "What is it?"

For a moment, I can't speak. The way such things strike me, there are no words. The gods reach down and touch you on their own schedule. "What... What do you call the moon? Does it have its own name?"

There is a pause, and then he says, "There is a tale from the nomads of the plains tribes, the original inhabitants of Antiva before the Rivaini invasions, many centuries ago. They speak of Drinera, the Pale Daughter. She was the most beautiful creature to ever walk the earth, with fair hair that rippled like the waves of wind across the grass. She loved the hunter Caccin, but the powerful mage Mipaur loved her with a black heart, and vowed that he would do anything to have her. The Pale Daughter was beloved of her tribe, and the hunter well respected, and she spurned the mage, no matter the gifts he showered her with. He vowed revenge, and tried to find support among the tribe, but none would hear him. The day that Caccin and Drinera were bonded, in a fit of jealousy, Mipaur carved a furrow into his arm with a piece of broken obsidian, and used his own life to curse them to never be together. The magic cast the lovers in opposite directions, to the ends of the world, into the sky, and in his vengeance, he cursed all the tribe to never touch the ones they loved again, sending them upward and outward in all directions, but the All-Mother took pity on them, and stopped their fall into the void. So by day, Caccin hunts, and Drinera watches over the tribe of her people by night." Here, he laughs. "Sometimes, it is possible to see them couple, right there in the sky. Right in front of everyone," he purrs, laughing under his breath again, making me giggle.

"Eclipse," I say, and he nods. I can see his grin and the shine of his eyes glinting in the darkness.

"_Sì_, and when she covers him," he says, his voice gone very dark, "He sets her aflame."

I think I like the way this world thinks.

Zev was right: by the time we get down toward the docks, my panties are barely damp, and I duck into the darkness at the edge of an alley to shimmy back into them. At what appears to be a non-descript doorway, Zev knocks in a complicated pattern. After a moment, there is the sound of a bolt being drawn back, and in the crack of the opening door, the pale face of a very old man peers out. His eyes widen when he sees Zev and me, and then he hastily gets out of the way for us. He doesn't say a word, and neither do we as we enter a darkened hallway. The man shuts the door behind us and shuffles around, and after a while a bright tongue of flame lights a candle that throws dim light and flickering shadows all about the room.

The old man's voice quavers, but I can hear the strength behind it that speaks of a man who was once powerful and strong. "I did not expect to hear that pattern again," he says, coming closer, and I'm a little surprised to hear a French accent, faint though it may be. There is a moment of silence, and then he asks, "Is it time, then?"

Zev shakes his head. "No, that is not why I have come. It is about the passage," he says, and the old man's face visibly relaxes.

"Ah, this way then," he says, hobbling off into further recesses of the building. We follow along behind him, and down a short boat-stair into a root-cellar. Nothing seems remarkable about the place, until the man grabs a shovel from the corner and begins to knock down one of the walls. Behind what appeared to be a solid surface of dirt is an old stone door.

Zev turns around, eyeing the old man critically. "We were never here," he says, at length, and the man nods sharply. Turning, Zev opens the heavy door and ushers me through, into the waiting darkness. The door closing behind us cuts off the light, and I wait, but there is no light forthcoming, only Zev's hands taking mine and guiding me to hold onto his shoulders.

As he moves off, I follow along, closing my eyes, even though the darkness is complete. The air is musty and still as the grave. "Did I ever tell you I'm afraid of the dark?" I whisper, and Zev laughs.

"Sensible girl."

"Way to be reassuring," I say, and he laughs quietly.

"This passage is the front hall to a former Merchant's Guild master. It was buried by a terrible mudslide that wiped out nearly half the city, hundreds of years ago. Once, that door was at street level." Reminds me of the Seattle Underground.

"So, people... died here?" I ask, nervously, and he laughs again.

"There are no ghosts here, _cara_," he says, turning left, and now I have a whole new worry. It didn't occur to me that ghosts are actually real, provable manifestations here, and to be honest, I don't think they'd just stay floating in one place waiting for an adventurer to come along and find them.

"You... You're sure about that?" I ask, my voice thinner than I would like.

"What is the matter?" Zev turns right, and I stumble, but his hands on mine keep me from losing track of him.

"Uh..." Lily Mahariel fought ghosts, skeletons, and wraiths, without batting an eyelash. "Undead scare me. Really badly. Also, there's the fact that we're underground, and the air is... close." I'm trying not to think about it, the walls around us, the dirt and buildings and everything above us, the stillness of the dead air and the way it eats sound. The darkness. "_Shit_," I whisper, heartfelt, trying to master my breathing. "Who was that man?" I ask, trying to distract myself.

"Ah, a man who owes me a very old debt. I saved his daughter's life; he could not afford the contract on the man set to kill her, so I paid it, and filled it myself. She was a good woman, and they were... far too important to the community." I think about that for a minute. It's bloodthirsty and merciless, and that's the Crows for you, but it also makes a sort of sense. He was actually performing a civic duty, in a twisted sort of way.

Ohhhh _crap_. Politics and intrigue; pay attention, girl, this is your life now...

"When I left Antiva, I gave him care of my house."

I feel my mouth drop open in surprise. _His house?_ Well, doesn't matter; we can't live there anyway, obviously. No wonder he knows this path like the back of his hand. And now I've just opened my eyes and remembered that we're underground in the pitch black. "How much further?" I ask, not happy about the quaver to my voice.

"Ten steps, then right again," he murmurs after a moment, and I count. Nine, eight... "Forty steps, then left," he continues, then, "Eight steps, turn left... down seventeen steps... twenty steps ahead... and here there is a ladder." He guides my hands to the rungs, and I am so grateful that he's been distracting me with focusing on my immediate task, just taking enough steps to get where we're going, just keeping me counting to keep me from thinking. "Up, fourteen rungs, then feel overhead for an iron ring set into the stone."

I climb up, feel around, and find a ring just hanging there. "Watch your head when you pull down," Zev whispers, just beneath me. I tuck my head against the ladder and pull, and the stone ponderously swings downward. "Now, turn and grab the rungs on the top side of the door," he instructs, and I take a leap of faith, clinging to the door with a tiny whimper. "Climb up and over the lip," he says, and I can't do anything else. I climb. Zev finds me quivering on the floor, helps me up, and then I feel his fingers sliding up my arm, whispering across my face. He presses a kiss to my lips, then to each of my cheeks. "Nearly there now, _cara_." As we move off again, I hear the stone scraping behind us and nearly jump out of my skin. "The door closes of its own accord," he murmurs, which helps. A little.

Zev keeps me counting the steps and the turns, and at last we arrive at another stairwell, and a wooden door at the top.

When we step out, we're in a broom closet. The weak light that filters in from the edges of the door is bright enough to see by, to my sensitive eyes, and I can see that the door we just opened looks like nothing more than the wall when it's closed. Somewhere nearby, a woman's voice rises in passion, and I realize we must be inside the whore house. Oh, my clever, clever man. No wonder he picked this place; I wonder if he owns it, too. Pulling me into the shaft of light that seeps in by the door jamb, Zev looks me up and down. Reaching up, he pulls the pins out of my hair and rearranges it, then straightens my dress, turning me in his hands as he adjusts the belts that hold it in place.

Nodding to himself, he puts my hand back on his shoulder, then, casting me a warning glance, puts his ear to the crack. After a time, footsteps pass us, and then a few moments later, Zev pops open the door and pulls me out into a hallway. We dash down it, heading for a curtained alcove at the far end. Ducking inside, Zev pushes me behind him and then, a few heartbeats later, pulls the fabric aside just a tiny bit so he can peer out into the room that can be seen from here. All the patrons in the sitting room are occupied, so we exit the alcove from the opposite side, and then through a small door that pops out of the woodwork on one side of another hall. A narrow stair leads up to another little hidden door, opening onto the sound of many voices raised in desire.

At the end of this hallway, Zev tugs on a glove before he opens the last door on the left, and we enter a small room furnished with a simple table and chairs and a curtained alcove-bed. Ignacio stands at the window, his back to us.

"Ah, there you are," he says. "I wondered if you would come at all." Turning around, he looks at Zev, then at me, and his eyebrows crawl nearly up to his hairline. "It is true," he breathes. "Ceasar said he had seen you, but I hardly dared to believe it."

I shift awkwardly and offer him a wan smile. "Yep, that's me: full of surprises. So, why are we here?"

"Ah, subtle, as ever, Warden. Had I any doubts, you have just banished them," he says, laughing.

"Don't call me that," I hiss, and he stops, surprised.

Holding his hands up in a gesture of peace, he says, "I apologise, I did not mean to offend. How am I to address you, then?"

"Lily," I say, simply.

He nods, then gestures to the chairs. "Lily, then. Will you sit? I would offer you refreshments, but... under the circumstances," he says, shrugging and spreading his arms apologetically. I fold my arms over my chest and wait. I'm not about to trust a bloody soul who isn't well known to me, but particularly not another Crow. Ignacio sighs and leans against the wall, folding his own arms. "As you like, then: straight to business. As you are no doubt aware, tales of the demise of Maso's cell have reached even the deafest of ears. The guild is now scrambling to pull itself together, and the Masters all eye each other with distrust and fear, more than ever before. None are certain now where the contract will land, and _someone_ must take it, for the reputation of the Crows will allow nothing less. What I believe will happen next is that a bid well be made, and then it will be put about that it belongs to another, a rival of the actual holder, in the hopes that they may affect the outcome of where the, ah, _curse_ will descend next."

I blink. "You want me to... do that again?"

Ignacio looks at me directly, but holds his hands up, empty. "I merely relate some rather interesting information. It is commonly said that the current Guild Master is a complacent fool, and his tactical decisions are laughable. With the Masters divided into warring factions, it is an interesting time to be a betting man, would you not agree?"

Damn. Ignacio never says anything plainly; I should know that. Zev rubs his chin, weighing the other Crow carefully. "Hmmm... on whom would the savvy bettor lay coin?"

Ignacio leans back, smiling. "Why, I should think it would be the man that no one seems to be able to kill."

I've been chewing at my lip, and make a conscious effort to stop. "So, it sounds like you already know about a betting pool."

Ignacio's gaze swings to mine. "Indeed. The pool is rather larger than you might suspect. In fact, I would even say that it is rather larger than _anyone_ might suspect."

Zev and I exchange a long look. We knew this was coming, but to find support? That's... unexpected.

"What if... we wanted to place a bet, ourselves?" I ask, cautiously, the metaphor getting a little obscure for my taste.

"Then Enzo would become your best friend," Ignacio says, grinning like a crocodile, "And you would find yourself in possession of some very interesting reading, on occasion."

Ally with Ignacio? I take a deep breath, looking to Zev. I am determined: no matter what he decides, I'm behind him. We'll figure it out. If I have to face more nights like That One, as long as he's at my side and not the goal, I'll live. I can deal.

I have to.

"Hmm... I believe that would be of great assistance," Zev says, with an incline of his head. "Quite a favour, in fact."

"Remembering favours rendered earns a man allies," he replies, nodding at us.

So. Fill the contracts we're sent, annihilating the competition one cell at a time, which will build us an army, one cell at a time, until Zev can take over. The last man standing at the top of a pile of bodies. Oh gods. _One breath at a time. Don't let your hands shake._ "Uhhh... What're the odds, here? How many players in this game?" I ask.

"Forty-seven, all told," he replies. "There are six who never play and fifteen who will lay bets, maybe bluster, but ultimately merely watch. Of the remaining twenty-six, half can be supposed to be amongst those who will try to accept the contract, though... every man has his price, of course. The rest either wish to scavenge amongst the scraps or have already gathered to speak of counter-moves."

With fully half of them occupied by their in-fighting, it might not take very long to whittle down the numbers stacked against us. But, then again, they're expecting us, now. I wonder if Alistair would let me take Anders. I wonder if Anders would even be willing. Ah, crap. I can't get Alistair embroiled in Antivan politics. Then again, we _have_ been staying at the compound... and I'm supposedly the avenging ghost of the Hero...

_Ogods-ogods-ogods-_

Oh gods, I'm so bad at chess, and this is like trying to play blindfolded with only half the pieces.

Okay, deep breaths, Zev was practically weaned on this game; I just need to follow his lead. Right? Blackened, barbecued, left under the charcoals for six months _burnt toast_.

"Has anyone made any real moves yet?" I ask.

"Just one," Ignacio says, all shark's teeth.

Us.

Pisces: it's what's for dinner.

Oh gods, keep it together, Ignacio just said something else. "...best if I simply say: I'll be in touch, yes?"

I'm gonna have to spar with the Wardens. And Leliana.

_-ogods-ogods-ogods-_

And then we're going to go... kill... people...

...

...a lot.

Oh no.

I'm not meant for this. I'm not meant for this. I'm just a carpenter.

"Yes," Zev says. "We shall see what the messenger brings."

It's not until we're halfway down the little stair again that I realize, Ignacio never once used my name, after that first. As we crawl back through the darkness, ten, eight, forty steps at a time, I turn it over and over in my head. "I wonder who was listening," I whisper as we climb down the ladder.

"As do I," he says, simply, then falls silent again.

So is Ignacio one of the ones on our side, or is he a puppet? Every man has his price, he said - was that a warning or casual advice? Tangle upon tangle.

I've got a stomach full of broken glass and a mind full of spiders and poison. "_She needed the __protection,"_ Ferrilinn said. A tiny flutter of hope in the darkness, but only if we dance every step perfectly in time.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, and it's slipping through my fingers, every moment, while the pieces shift and I have no idea how to play this game. "_Vir Bor'Assan_," I say, randomly, the words just falling out of my mouth, and Zev pauses in front of me, just a moment of surprise before he continues on, but I felt it in him.

"You so rarely speak Elvish anymore, _cara_."

Crap. That's true. "Um... Yeah... I-"

"Do you know the last time I heard you say that?" he asks, and for the life of me, I simply cannot read his voice at all.

"No," I whisper, afraid of the answer.

"'Bend, but never break'," he quotes. "You said that to me only once, but I did not understand what it meant, not immediately. I thought you had meant for me to be quick, wishing me light feet. It was not until I knelt by your grave that I realized you had known, that you were trying to warn me." I never wrote that. I never even thought about it. That was all her. Shit. "A year, _cara_, a year passed as I struggled to live up to that, and then you return to me, but you are different."

"There are some who know me by the name Phoenix," I say, at length. "My grandmother's people said that it is my totem, the creature that watches over me and lends me its power when the need is great. I've remade myself many times, but none in quite so profound a way as I have done here. But the phoenix is the symbol of eternal rebirth, the cycling life. That is why I have the bone spiral on my necklace... to remind me that every end is also a beginning." I sigh, wishing we didn't have to be walking right now. "I don't know what to say, in these moments, because I know you see that I am still _me_, but all the details have shifted. One day, when all this is settled, we can sit down and I'll tell you about-"

"No," he says, quietly but firmly enough that it shuts me up in an instant. "The Blight was no time for talk, either, but we made time. We will do so again. Every night, you will tell me things, these things that make you so different but so familiar. There can be no secrets between us, _amora_; that is too dangerous."

I swallow. Oh shit. A flock of butterflies beat wildly to be set free against my rib cage. "Okay," I say, meekly, because I know he's right.

It's time.


	15. Shadows of Our Former Lives

When we get back home- _Home_... how weird. When we get back to the Warden base, Ponka meets us at the door, jumping around and grinning like a loon. Immediately, he is sniffing me, checking me out, and when he reaches the place where my new tattoo swirls over my hip, I squeal as he pokes his nose right into my butt. He follows that line across my back and up my side, making me spin as I try to dance away from him, giggling. Finally through with his inspection, he turns to Zev, sniffing at him, too, and then he backs up, looking from one to the other of us, wiggling his tail-bump and prancing back and forth, barking merrily.

"Uh... I think we've been found out," I say, watching the dog being crazy, and Zev laughs.

"It would seem so," he agrees.

Ponka's happy cacophony brings Leliana out of a side-hall with a quizzical expression, and she looks to us. "What's all this?" she asks, drawing closer, and I turn to look at her. She gasps, her hand darting out to brush my hair aside before I can stop her, revealing the earring. Leliana giggles like a schoolgirl and I'm suddenly crushed into an exuberant hug. I squeak, barely having time to adjust - and hug her back - before she's holding me at arm's length again, grinning. "I _knew_ you were up to something, Zevran," she says, "But I hadn't quite guessed. How _wonderful_!"

Taken by surprise, I burst into giggles of my own, covering my face with my hands and peering out at her through my spread fingers. I can feel myself blushing hotly as Leliana continues, "Oh, but I should be on my way then."

Glancing at Zev, the way his smile has darkened around the edges does nothing for my ability to stand still and look civilized. I giggle again, dropping my hands. "Actually, I'm half-starved. I haven't had anything today besides that biscotti and coffee, and an orange," I admit.

Leliana looks shocked, then determined. "You can't go _anywhere_ else until you've had a proper wedding feast," she says decisively. "We must go to the kitchens at once," she declares, drawing herself up resolutely, but the mischievous twinkle in her eye makes me grin.

Zev and I sit at one of the Wardens' tables, hip to hip, with my leg wrapped over his, under the table. Leliana hustles into the kitchen, and we take advantage of the temporary solitude to make out like teenagers. It's all my fault, to be honest... I'm just really, _really_ bad at keeping my hands to myself when it comes to him... much to his amusement.

Leliana laughs at us when she returns, and I jump, red-faced, as she sits across from us, depositing a giant platter of food on the table, along with three glasses and a bottle of wine. The array set before us boggles the mind, and I stare at it voraciously, trying to decide where to begin. Grapes, figs, strawberries, melon, three different kinds of cheese, some kind of chicken, a few sprigs of basil, what may or may not be curried lamb, mushrooms, cucumbers, yogurt, sliced tomatoes and some kind of cold pasta something, little sausages, two artichokes and some melted butter- "Ooooh, _artichokes_," I murmur, practically drooling, and she laughs. Before anything else can happen, I have to eat something.

Everything is fantastic, as usual; I have got to go in there sometime and learn how this woman cooks. All the while that I am sucking on artichoke leaves, savouring cheeses and orange, bread and basil, there's this pile of melon sitting right there, looking all fresh and cool and crisp. Little wedges of peach-coloured stomach-death, succulent and sweet. Worst of all is watching Zev enjoy them so thoroughly, and I get caught staring, his eyes narrowing speculatively as he smirks knowingly. He thinks I'm looking at him, but my eyes are only for the melon, that forbidden ambrosia. Maybe if I just... lick one. My hand darts out almost of its own accord, and I grab a piece, bringing it to my nose. Oh, that scent. Generally speaking, I prefer herb and spice scents to flowers and fruits, but there are a few, select exceptions. Melon is one of them. My favourite summer bath-mix was cucumber-melon; wearing it helped desensitise me to the scent, so I didn't go mad when confronted with a plate of that perilous delicacy. But I lack such modern comforts here, and so I can hold out against it no longer. I lick it.

Oh sweet nectar, oh thou forbidden delight! Hastily, I put it down and put a piece of bread on top of it, before I'm broken by the desire to just eat it and then spend the next day regretting it. Of course, this insane little ritual has not gone unnoticed by the two other pairs of eyes that are regarding me strangely, and I colour, caught. "Uh... I can't eat melon," I say, trying to hold in an embarrassed giggle. "But I love it so much, even though it really hurts my stomach."

"You miss the flavour, _amora_?" Zev asks me, in that arch voice he uses when I've just sprung a trap I didn't know he set for me, and that's the only warning I have before his arm wraps tightly about my shoulders, pulling me flush against him. He kisses me with so much heat it makes my toes curl, and I forget, for a moment, that Leliana is sitting across from us as the cool tang of my favourite flavour fills my mouth, sweet and completely, utterly devoid of negative repercussions. It's brilliant. I'll never lament not being able to eat melon again. He pulls back after a few seconds, and I gasp, belatedly realizing our audience and uselessly ducking my head.

Leliana laughs. "Oh, don't mind me. I think it is perfectly adorable," she says, her eyes sparkling. Handing us two glasses, she raises her own in toast. "Here's to a bottle, a friend, and lovers: the first full, the second steadfast, and the third unconquerable," she says. "May all your days be fortune-kissed." Rising, glass in hand, she looks down at us. "Everyone wishes to have a love in their life as great as yours," she murmurs, "Yours is a story to inspire poets for generations, and it's only half-written. I'm honoured to be a part of it." She takes another sip of her wine, as the mischievous glint returns to her eye. "But with that, I bid you goodnight, my friends. May the sunrise find you unrested." Turning, she saunters off, whistling.

"You have to eat more melon," I say, decisively, as Zev and I clean up our plate.

"Oh, I do?"

"Mmh, yes. In fact, I'm pretty sure the fate of the world might depend on it."

"The whole _world_, dear _Maker_," he says, deadpan enough to make me snort. "Ah, what a terrible twist of fate, that I am now required to eat melon and kiss my woman. How cruelly I am used. Such a terrible burden to plague a man," he laments - rather convincingly, save for the smirk - and I laugh.

Ponka joins us as we leave the kitchen, happily trotting along beside us, but I've got too much time to think again, and that reminds me there are things I need to be saying, once we're alone.

Finally back in our own room, the air is oppressive, and it's not entirely due to the fact that it's been shut up all day. Ponka flops himself down in front of the door as soon as we shut it, which he's done every night since That One. I sit on the edge of the bench, nervous as hell, and unbuckle my sandals as the silence between us stretches on. When I look up, Zev is standing in the window, hands to either side of the sash, just staring out at the moon.

"You know I'd do anything for you, right?" I ask, hardly able to raise my voice above a whisper. To be honest, if I had known what was really going on, I would have gladly taken Lily Mahariel's place, just so Zev could have her here now, instead of me. I don't deserve to be here. I've taken her place, stolen her life and her husband. When he turns around, his face is in shadow, and I can't read it. He folds his arms over his chest, leaning against the window sill.

At last, he says, "Do you think I question this?"

I shake my head, looking down at my hands. "You said you want me to tell you where I'm from, why I'm different now. I don't know where to start, how to tell you the things you want to know. I don't have words..."

I hear him take a breath and let it out through his nose. "_Va bene, cara,_ start at the beginning, then. You are human now, so, who are your people?"

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Right. It's like I'm putting my life on the line, here and now. I twist my fingers together to keep my hands from shaking, not even sure exactly why this is so scary to me. Maybe it's just because I'm so terrified that everything is about to fall apart. He knows I'm not really his Lily. But then again, he had me marked anyway, so that should give me heart, right? Right.

"Okay... uh... Okay. Let's see... I'm... not an orphan. My mother was a musician and a teacher, and my father drove merchant carts from one town to another." There, so far so good. Piano teacher and trucker. Check. "Both my grandfathers were soldiers, and my mother's father was also a carpenter. I learned from him; I can make just about anything out of wood, given enough time and materials... though... probably not weapons. One of my grandmothers was sweet and serene, and the other was strong, creative, and funny; both of them were kind, wise, and beautiful. Anyway, the short version of when I was a kid is that my mother soon tired of my father's travelling, and wanted a man who was present in the home more often, so she set about finding herself a new husband, and eventually ran off with someone else. My father died when I was sixteen, and my mother disowned me for a time. I wasn't able to live at my home anymore, so I went about on the streets, begging and scavenging, and not being very successful at dodging people who wanted to hurt me." Reciting this bit, it's almost as though my life is nothing but an outline for a bad pre-teen novel. I feel so disconnected from it. "After a couple of years where I learned my way around the business end of a knife fairly handily, I tried to go home, because my mother was sick."

It's what comes next that's harder, the part I only _wish_ I could fully distance myself from, but I draw a deep breath and forge ahead. "The problem with going back to my home town was that there was a man there. Tommy... knew me for years. He was there for me when my dad died, helped pay some of the debts that Dad left me with, gave me things, let me lean on him. He came to me again when my mom was ill, and helped me. He was kind, bringing me things, helping keep the house clean, looking after her so I could sleep, things like that. He'd fix things that broke, help me with my work... He was so sweet to me..." I swallow, hard, remembering how idyllic those moments were, and how desperately I had tried to love him. "But I was never good enough, could never quite measure up to his expectations. And when that would happen..." My hand automatically rises to touch my jaw, the place where the break no longer exists. "He never did it in front of others, of course, but... and I would think to myself that I deserved it, because if I had just done what he said, or not made a stupid mistake... If I were just a better woman..." I grit my teeth, forcing myself to move forward.

"I escaped him during those two years on the streets, but then I came home again, and there he was. And he just... took over. It started out small; he would go to the market for me, or see to certain things, and then one day I looked up and realized that somehow he had control of everything. I wasn't allowed to sing, or wear makeup - only whores do those things, of course. I had to ask him permission for things if I wanted them. I couldn't buy so much as a spool of thread without his say-so, even though some of the money we had came from my efforts. I made furniture and other things out of the driftwood that would wash up on my beach. Honestly, this is the longest I've ever gone without a carving knife in my hand in twenty years, and it's driving me crazy, but I'm aware there are more important things at stake.

"I come from a land of sea and fog, wind and rain and storms, something like Ferelden, I think. It's cold and it snows a little in the winter, and the summers are never much hotter than it was today, which tells me I'm in for ten kinds of hell when summer actually hits, here. Just fair warning: too much heat tends to make me faint."

I become intensely aware that I'm monologuing, and he's just standing there listening, but I stumble on, mindlessly pulling the hem of my dress through my fingers, because there's nothing else I can do. I feel like I'm digging my own grave. "Uh... Anyway... He- Tommy-" I swallow, thinking back, my mind flashing very vividly on all the things that he did. "He would lock me in the closet, or the hope chest, for hours," I blurt, the words piling up behind my teeth and cutting off my air. I want to claw at my mouth, like it's sewn shut, trying to release this one thing that I've simply never told anyone, ever.

"...Hope chest?" Zev asks, in that 'I really don't want to know, do I' kind of tone, giving me something to focus on and then it's like opening a flood-gate, no way to stem the tide of words.

I pat the trunk I'm sitting on, shuddering, haunted, and I can feel how wide my eyes are when I look at him. "He hit me in the mouth for talking too much, or if I sounded 'too smart'. I couldn't cry, because if I made him feel guilty, then I was being passive-aggressive. I couldn't laugh, unless it was at something that he intended as a joke, so I learned to cover my face, to control my eyes.

"There was a- a-" Not Kool-aid, they don't have that here. "-wine stain on the floor, and I couldn't get it out, no matter what I tried, so I was a bad woman, no use at all, would never make a proper wife, was lucky he even bothered with my worthless hide, because no one else would ever want me. The fourth time he hit me I blacked out; eventually I woke up in the chest. Longest I ever spent in there was about a day and a half. That was the time that I tried to run from him and had the guard out to the house asking him questions. He was all smart and affable, and made me look like a madwoman, so they left me there. It didn't matter if I didn't want him to touch me or if I had other things I wanted to do, when it was time for bed, I had to- And he would- Bruises-" I stutter to a halt and suddenly realize that while I was staring so hard at my hands, Zev has come over and sat next to me. I jump, but then I lean against him, and he puts a gentle arm around my shoulders.

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and curl closer, not really daring yet to look up. "He was taller than Alistair, and much, much stronger than me. He could _enforce_ his will, and there was very little I could do about it. I spent much of my time trying to find ways to keep him happy, because I truly thought, for a very long time, that if I could be a better woman, things would be just fine, like they were in the in-between times, after we'd had a fight. But it never stayed that way, because I'd do something wrong again. Stupid things I ought to remember, like if I didn't scrub the mud off his boots after he'd come in from a storm, or that I mustn't put rosemary in the stew, only in tomato sauce. Don't touch him when he's sleeping. Don't look another man in the eye. Don't question him about anything in front of other people. Always kiss him on the cheek when he gets home from work, without fail, because it's unforgivably cold not to, but never on the mouth, because if I do that, then I'm being wanton, which means that I must be seeing another man behind his back-" I cut off, breathless, a litany of other rules and their complicated reasons trembling on my lips, all of them now useless, irrelevant. The idea that I'll never have to worry about them again releases chains around my heart that I didn't even know were there. "When he got me pregnant-"

"You have a child?" he asks, an edge to his voice, and I choke on a mirthless laugh.

"No, that ended the night I told him. That's how my jaw got broken."

"Ah." He thinks a moment, then says, "This is what you meant, earlier, that you had asked Anders to heal you?"

I nod. "Yes. I didn't want him to be able to taint us with _those_ scars. My healers said I'd never have children, that I would lose them all. Anders said I could, but that it would kill me, so... that last healing, where you had to hold me down while I was awake? Yeah. I just couldn't bear the idea of us losing so much, not because of _him_. He invaded my life for so long I had no idea of what it could be like any other way, wouldn't have thought I deserved it, even if I did know. But then... I met you."

I feel him tense, but his voice is deceptively casual. "Hmmm... Yes. This is what I have been most curious about, _amora_. _How_, exactly, did that happen?" Zev asks, and I swallow.

"Uh... Okay, look, I don't know if it'll make any sense. Not because I think you can't understand," I amend, hastily, "But because I'm not sure if I can explain it. It's stuff I don't really know how it works, entirely, but... Uh... Well, I told you about the shared dreams, right, and they come in this..." I trail off, a little lost. Starting out with game discs is not the place to begin. I take another deep breath, shaking my head. "Okay, wait, let me start again. The people of my world run by machine. We use machines for everything: washing our clothes, heating our food or keeping it cold, building, healing, learning, making toys and furniture and clothes, transportation, everything. There are still people who do things by hand, like me, but most people simply buy their goods at the market. Um, anyway, so, without magic, we had to devise other ways, ways that rely on the properties of the physical world, and we eventually harnessed lightning, through various methods, which we use to power our machines." I put my fingers to my lips, having a sudden thought.

"Maybe that's how I got here. Nothing travels faster than the speed of light. Hmmm... Well, one kind is used to transmit messages over very long distances, instantly - or nearly, anyway - and I was using one of those to come here. The problem is, they can't take your body through, they can only send sound and images. We had a way that images could be... well, anything you see, you could save an image of it, so you could look at it again, or you could save fragments of time like moving paintings, and share them with other people. So, for instance, they could watch what happened when you went on a picnic, if you chose to record it, or you could save an image of yourself sitting on the grass, or you could contact someone while you were there, and they could see you and talk to you like they were next to you. You could also just make stuff up, like drawing a new picture, so, dreams could be shared through them, too. There were professional theatre companies who would do these big productions, all the way down to the average person who would record things like their child's first steps.

"After you create one of these images or fragments, you could give someone else the key to it, so they could access it, too. I liked the theatre, and I liked dreams, so when I heard about it, I got the key to Thedas, one copy of many. There are millions of keys, thousands of dreams, and most people will use their key, experience the dream, and then go on to the next. The nature of it is such that it is the same every time: whenever you use it, it starts at the beginning, just like opening to the first page of a book. It is... entertainment. I used many of these keys to other places. Everyone did. I had no idea that things would be so different, when I opened the door that brought me here." I shiver. How glad am I that I didn't end up in Fallout 3 or Assassin's Creed? Wow.

Zev is quiet for a long time. "If you came to me in dreams, how did this Tommy person learn of us? Were you not asleep?"

"No... I was awake. You have to be awake to use the machines. And... it has this pane of glass on it that let me see and hear everything that was happening, like a window. I could direct my movements and speak, but I could never truly reach you, always coming up against that cold barrier. I never actually got to touch you until you fished me out of the ocean. But... I could direct my body here to do it for me; even though I couldn't feel it in my skin, I felt it in my heart. He saw me kiss you, once, right before we went into Orzammar. I didn't realize he was there until it was too late. He took my key and broke it, but I got another one in secret. Nothing could keep me from you." And that's the gods' honest truth - not even the impossibility could separate us. "When I said that you were my sunlight underground... So many times, so many things I told you about the way I felt, I was actually talking about my life _there_. The pain, the hollowness, how alone I felt. You _were_ my light in the dark, more than you could ever have known."

Zev shifts, none of the tension gone, and I look up at him, but he's looking out the window again, and I can't see his face. I have no idea what he might be thinking, as another silence stretches between us, so I just put my head down, trying to take comfort in the fact that he is still here, still next to me, and hasn't let go. "This key... Did you have it when you went into the ocean?" he finally asks, his voice low and nearly toneless.

I shake my head. "No."

"How did you come here, then?"

"I don't know. I drowned, remember? I didn't think I _could_ come here, though I wanted to. I had to die to reach you. I think I may have traded my life for another chance."

Zev kisses the top of my head, and his arm tightening around me makes me feel safe, so I scoot closer. I'm beginning to think maybe I'd like to just fall asleep on his shoulder when he asks me another question. "Is your key well-hidden?"

I shake my head again. "No... But even if he does find it and use it, he can't reach me; the key doesn't lead here. It would take him to the beginning of the Blight, but it won't affect us. It will be his own version of events, and I can guarantee he won't be able to touch this place like I did. Besides, no one will ever guess where it is I've really gone; it would never occur to them that it could be possible."

"That is something of a shame." His tone is so bland, so neutral, so _devoid_ of inflection that it makes me shiver. "I should have liked to meet him. But it is good that he cannot touch you here, or us. We have enough to deal with." As fast as that - too fast; far too fast for it to put me at ease - his tone changes back its normal tenor. "It is best not to borrow trouble then; there are other demons to slay. Perhaps if we put some of them to rest, your others might ease as well."

There are other things I want to say, reasons and explanations, but I can pick up on a cue, and this one says 'time to shut your mouth', so I do. Not that he would mean it that way, but I know better than to push my luck; the subject is closed for now. He rises again, his hand trailing down my arm as he moves away, circling to his side of the bed, and he rolls his shoulders, stretching out his neck. He pulls his shirt off over his head, tossing it onto the trunk next to me, so I follow suit, rising. Fumbling with the complicated belts that hold my dress together, I once again find myself suddenly naked as it all falls off when I pull the wrong loop. I gasp, the night breeze off the water puckering my nipples, and Zev laughs. I cast him a look over my shoulder,  
and find him standing naked in the strip of moonlight that comes in through the window.

I'm keenly aware of my own nudity now, and even though we've been together for months now, and it's dark, and he's seen me naked hundreds of times, and I've lost a bunch of weight, and we have sex nearly every day, I'm still shy. Crazy? Yes. I admit it. Alas, it is also true. It is this moment, the one between 'I want him' and the first touch, the first kiss, where I am intimidated by him, by his strength and the look in his eye when he rakes his gaze over me. Every single time, despite the fact that I am completely unafraid of him, and even if I'm the one making all the moves (not like that happens very often, but still). It's nothing to do with fear... and more to do with feeling like _prey_. It's the hint of primal, that glimpse of the beast, that leaves me shaking like a rabbit - every time - and I don't even have much of my hair to hide behind, anymore.

Right now, with the bed between us, it feels like an ocean, uncrossable, a terrible divide. There are so many things unsaid between us, so much we just repress, hold back, push down and look away from, each of us an island. Now, with the day over, there's nothing left to do but try to sleep, and these are the hours that prey upon me, when there's nothing outside of myself to focus on, and my mind turns on itself. How much worse it must be for him, to have lost so much and gained so little. And yet, he gives me that irreverent smirk, and the grace with which he stalks across the bed toward me as I sit on the edge of it makes me not want to poke at it.

"Such a serious look you have," he says as he reaches out to enfold me in his arms. "Such eyes. Is there nothing that can be done?" The words are soft, almost teasing, but there is an undercurrent. "It is our wedding night; this is a good thing, yes? You are here, with me, and not there, with that... monster. Can we not set it aside for a little while, and let the world take care of itself until tomorrow?"

I can't help it, I shiver. "I'm sorry... I just... I think too much."

The kiss on my shoulder, I expect, but him scooting around to cup my chin I don't. "Lily, _cara_, if it is not the monster in the closet that makes you look so, tell me, what is it?" The callus of his thumb slides along my jaw gently, his brow furrowed.

"Uh..." Damn, I'm just too transparent... at least to him, and I know it's our wedding night and I'm supposed to be being sexy right now. He deserves no less, and yet here I am, dumping problems on him and making everything all serious, when he's got more than enough to contend with already. I lean into him, taking comfort from his arms, from his presence and the scent of him. Sighing, I try to relax, and shake my head, because I know he won't take 'nothing' for an answer. "I worry about everything. So much, happening so fast it makes my head spin." I look up at him, then, studying his face and the worried expression, and I just want to smooth it away, but I have no words of comfort to offer that aren't trite and meaningless. "But that's just me... I was talking to Leliana..." I swallow. I don't want to talk about this right now, but it's welling in me like a dark flood, and after today, at the cafe, and the shadows I saw on his face... we have to, even though it's bad timing. "She- She told me I was gone for a year," I say, watching him carefully.

"Yes. It was a year," he admits as he settles back, pulling me closer.

"That... That's a really long time. She told me that, and... the first thing I thought of was how you pulled me out of the ocean... I grew up by the sea, too. I _know_ how fast a ship moves on a storm wind. We were in the middle of nowhere." I swallow, turning in his arms so I can put mine around him, too, and he is quiet, watching me... kind of wary, maybe, but I still can't get a good read on him. I hate it when he goes opaque. "I didn't do it on purpose, but I didn't fight very hard, either. But... you _did_. There are such shadows on you now," I say, my eyes beginning to burn, and I pass my fingers over his forehead, the permanent line that I can see there, that didn't used to be.

He lets out a quiet breath, a small sigh, and his shoulders slump. "What would you have me say, _moglie mia_? That I carried your body, ignoring any decay as we travelled, until I found your clan?" He pauses, his bottom lip going tense. "No. Not your body. _Her_ body. I did that, yes. I carried her body to her clan to be buried properly. I wandered the woods, talking to a corpse, when I actually did speak. When I slept, it was because I had almost dropped her, and I knew that I would have to rest if I did not wish to pitch her into the dirt like a sack of grain grown too heavy." Zev is quiet for a moment while I curse myself for laying such a burden on him. After all that he had given me, he didn't deserve that, not from my hands.

"When they asked me why I had not buried you and planted the sapling immediately... I raged at them. It was a near thing, questioning me like that... She had wanted to return home, to see _her_ clan, not any other. Nearly, it came to blows. Nearly, I struck out. I nearly did many things. Many things..." the words trail off, his gaze turned tightly inwards, and he is quiet for a time. "It was Ashalle who convinced the Keeper to give me shelter through the winter. They accepted me for a time, for her sake, but I knew I could not stay. I believe they would have let me, but I could not bring the Crows upon them, not knowing what those people had meant to her."

I press my palm to his cheek, my thumb stroking over his cheekbone as he leans into the light touch. "I'm so sorry," I whisper. "I didn't mean to take her from you."

"I do not doubt that. Though, I am not sure I ever truly had her," he says, and he sounds so sad as his gaze focuses on me fully. This strikes a note of cold horror in the pit of my stomach, because somehow, no matter how I tried, even through my writing, she was still distant from him enough that he couldn't tell for certain how I loved him? Oh, my heart. "But I have you now."

"Cold comfort from a pale shadow," I whisper, bowing my head.

His face darkens, incredulous, thumb and forefinger going to my chin, forcing me to look up at him. "A pale shadow? Who? You? She was nothing more than a reflection, she was not the one directing and influencing everything. _You_ were. The woman I love is here, now. The _true_ one. She... she was... my friend. I cared for her. Her loss... is painful for the world, not just me." He shakes his head in firm denial. "No. The love, who we are to each other, it was a reflection of a true person in the mirror. I love the person who cast the image, the true person."

He says 'love' to me, so many times in a row it makes my heart stop, and tears spring to my eyes. My mind hisses with white noise, not a thought in it beyond the shock of this revelation, a joy so acute it is painful, so I kiss him, the only possible way I can respond. There is a small sound of surprise, even as his mouth opens to me, his tongue sliding along mine, and his grip on me tightens, so I press closer.

I'm completely breathless by the time he breaks away, his forehead resting against mine. "Do not for a second believe that I object, but what brought that on? Just so that I might know how to gain such a response more often," he adds, that sly smile that always slays me curving his lips.

I giggle, running my fingers through his hair. "I don't know if you noticed, but I'm sort of an emotional basket-case," I say, trying to talk around the laugh. "You will probably be surprised by the things I don't know. That, just now, being one of them."

"You are neither square like a case, nor made of reeds like a basket," he states as one of his wandering hands gives me a light squeeze, and I kick myself mentally. WWII slang for the lose. "As for why you do not know certain things, well, I believe that was covered earlier, yes?" I can practically see the light go on when he realizes what I meant, and the very dark shadow that swirls behind his eyes, the kind that can swallow a man. "You... you did not know I _love_ you?" He's choking on it, and I hasten to reassure him, shaking my head.

"No! No, of course I can see _that_, my love. _Everyone_ knows about us - even the Crows. But... I thought it was... well, _in spite_ of me not being her, like..." I make a frustrated little puff of sigh. "I know I could never measure up to _her_; I thought: what a disappointment it must be, to gain a common carpenter, after losing a peerless warrior like her."

The startled, confused, and vaguely affronted face he makes is nearly comical. "As though you thought you were some... fraud? My dear _amora_, that is... the only word that comes to mind is 'absurd'. Take heed of how those who knew her, and those who know you, react. Ponka? Myself? Leliana? _Alistair_?"

"I have no idea... how they were with her... how that is different from now. I cannot see it."

Zev waves his hand dismissively. "Then it does not matter. Suffice it to say that there is more than a resemblance, and earlier things tied up in it all."

"You mean, I'm not that different?"

"Just so. The walk, the attitude, the voice, expressions, all are the same. A carpenter or a warrior, your gait is the same, your responses..." He shrugs minutely, shifting me even nearer. "What is different are some of the memories, some of the manners, things that were gained from one hard-fought confrontation after another. But it was _you_ directing it all, directing her intent and choices. It is _you_ that we knew, that we _know_." Zev pauses before touching my forehead between my eyes, my bottom lip, over my heart, and then reaching around his back to touch my hand. "It was all of this that we cared for. That I loved then, and love now."

No holding them back anymore, those tears fall out, straight down my cheeks, as I touch his bottom lip, in turn. "How easily that word falls from your lips now," I say, awed, and he winces.

"How much did I leave unsaid? At the gate..." He pauses, the silence weighted. "She said she loved me, and hoped that I knew. She had never said such a thing before. It was... amazing. You chose for her to say this, did you not? You were telling me, even though you did not know... were not aware you were truly _here_. Yet still, you urged her to give me that gift, and in return, I... fumbled. How I cursed myself after that; all through the battle, I said to myself, 'Zevran, you are a fool. You are a despicable idiot. You say 'I know', as though that means anything!' So, I decided that I must tell you as soon as we next had a moment to ourselves." He takes another breath, and his voice is softer when he continues. "Every day after that, I would awaken, thinking that perhaps if I said it enough times, if I could only say it loud enough, you would return. And then you _came_ to me, the _full_ you. Perhaps it is foolish, but that same part of me also believes that I do not say it enough..." His voice fades to silence, his fear all too clear.

I shake my head, my turn to be incredulous. "No one has ever said such a thing to me, not the way you do. It's always carried a 'but' behind it. But you... you _mean_ it. No qualifications, no... reservations," I say, a wry smile curving my lips, and his in turn. "I'm not used to it; it still takes me by surprise."

There is not much to him that is soft, but his lips are like velvet as they brush over the tear tracks running down my face. "Hopefully it is a pleasant one then."

"You? None better," I whisper, leaning into his touch. Then, swallowing hard, I give him back what he's given me, as well as I know how anyway. "Ever since you stopped me in Denerim and asked me what I expected of you... I said you could go, if you wanted, because I could never see you caged, but I realized, in that moment... if you _were_ to leave, or even say you _wanted_ to, I would be _crushed_. I _was_ crushed. You lasted a year, but me... You're so much stronger than me. I barely made it three days." I draw a shuddering breath. "My desires are so simple... but all of them are tangled up in you..." Smiling now, I catch his hand and press my lips to the centre of his palm. "...My husband," I add, trying it out, the words feeling strange in my mouth, but so, so right in my heart, particularly when this makes him smile, practically glowing with pride.

Oh, my heart. If it means that he'll always look at me this way, I'll do anything, anything at all. Dangerous, dangerous man. How I love him. Words fail me; there are none, nothing else I can say. I trail one finger-tip down his nose and across his bottom lip, and as they part, I look up into his eyes, trapping myself. Suddenly ravenous, I kiss him passionately, eliciting another surprised sound as I cling tightly, but in the next moment I feel so much tension just flowing out of him as his hands slide down my back. I can feel him stirring against my thigh as I wrap my tongue around his, my fingers finding and tracing the lines of scars I know well, and the criss-crossing silver lines that are all-too new. How my heart breaks for him every time I feel them.

Is it weird that it makes me want him more? The idea of how close we came to losing everything, when we've only just now got hold of it, always makes me want to drown in him, as though if I can only hold him close enough, no one else would ever be able to touch him, or take him from me. Pulling back, I pepper his face with kisses, devour the line of his neck, taste his collar bone and lick the hollow of his throat. He tips his head back with a tense sigh, his fingers flexing against my hips angling me forward sharply to press tightly against his length. I cry out, but I will not be thwarted, not this time. I want to lick every inch of him, and now he's mine, entirely mine, not just _with_ me, but _claimed_, actually _mine_.

I push him back by the shoulders, impatient, and he falls back among the blankets, letting me have my way. His hands tangle in my hair as I kiss my way across his chest, gathering it up and away from my face; I pause as I reach the base of his breastbone and look up at him to find him watching me with a burning intensity. My hands have not been idle, wandering down his sides, and I become distracted by the lines that curve over his hips and down to the inside of his thighs, but there's all this expanse of stomach between here and there that just demands attention.

Kissing, licking and nibbling, I make my way down to the little trail of hair that points like an arrow from his belly-button straight down to the edge of his pants... when he's wearing them. Without them, it forms a sweep as elegant as any of his tattoos, perfectly framing those distracting lines. Why do I love the hollow of his hip so much? I have no idea, but as I press my cheek into it, nuzzling at all that silken skin, I can't deny that I do. Turning my head, I drag my tongue from the very top of that ridge of bone all the way down, following it to the dark and secret place that now belongs only to me.

Zev's hands tighten in my hair as my cheek brushes down the side of his manhood, and I can feel his pulse, throbbing within. Not yet, though, no matter how I ache for it. Always, he is so gentle, so careful of me, and when he gets his hands on me, I forget everything else. All I can do is react, and I forget to _act_, he swamps my senses so. But not this time, no. This time I am running my fingertips up and down the insides of his thighs with a feather-light touch that is raising goosebumps on his skin, and I discover that my breath washing across his swollen length makes it twitch. Oh, it's too much. Even though the taste of him fills my mouth as I suck gently at all the sensitive, tightening flesh around his testicles, it's just not enough.

Shifting again for a better angle, I take my time lavishing attention on every single millimeter of his cock with soft lips and swirling tongue. By the time I've reached his crown, he is breathing heavily, nearly undone, and I smile as I take him in hand, pausing in the moment where it rests against my lower lip, just trembling on the edge of the promise of heat and wetness.

He is the only man for whom I've ever done such a thing by choice. I may not have been able to give him my virginity, not really, but he holds so many of my other firsts.

Slowly, deliberately, increment by increment, I open my lips and suck him in. I can hear him struggling to keep his breathing under control, feel the thick vein thrumming against my bottom lip, and the slow, involuntary blink he makes pulls a wanton moan from me. The vibration of my lips makes him hiss, turning into a harsh sigh as I suddenly tilt my head downward, taking him down my throat as far as I can, disappointed that it's still three fingers from the base, no matter how I may swallow. One day, I swear, I will have it all. Every inch. However, tonight, I must settle for what I can get, but the thickness of him on my tongue, his fingertips digging into my scalp, and the strangled noises I can hear happening right over my head are more than enough reward.

I stop as he begins to flex in my mouth, not wanting everything to be over too quickly, and he lets out another one of those tense, harsh sighs. In the blink of an eye, he pounces on me, so suddenly I shriek as my gravity changes, and I find myself on my back, pinned by the wrists as he comes nose-to-nose with me, that dark and dirty smile on his lips. His breathlessness tugs strings deep within me, and I arch beneath him, pressing my stomach to his and crushing my breasts against all the hardness of him. Transferring his grip so he can free a hand without releasing me, he kisses me, slowly, deliberately, before drawing back. "Oh, _cara_, you nearly had me undone before we even begin," he murmurs. "You will pay for that," he tells me, almost conversationally, as he drags his fingers down my side, tracing the line of his tattoo - for I will never truly think of it as mine - with a touch so light it makes me shiver. "_Sei mia,_ Lily, _solo mia, e sono tuo, sempre solo tuo,"_ he whispers fervently, forgetting English again, and I am so distracted by the heat of his skin that I almost can't translate it. Only his, he says, and he is only mine. Always.

Oh, the things he says to me.

Conscious thought is driven from my head as his hand wanders over my skin, leaving trails of goose-flesh in its wake as I writhe beneath him, succeeding only in frustrating myself further. Right around the third time he brings me just to the brink before leaving off in favour of kissing me again, slowing everything down, I begin to beg, my voice high and breathless. I can't help it. I don't mean to, but the words just tumble from my lips, my half-senseless mewling betraying the fact that I am nothing more now than a quivering mass of desire and need, a need that can only be filled one way, by one man. I desperately whisper into the dark, things like, "Zev, please," and "Oh gods," and "I need you," until he finally pauses.

I still, panting, looking up at him, and I think no one has ever looked so perfect to me as he does right now, in this instant. _Mine_, my mind whispers, and I'm not sure if it's a statement of possession or of being possessed, but I have never wanted anything more. "Zevran," I whisper again, "My husband." The word still feels unfamiliar in my mouth, but the wild swirl of darkness and desire in his eyes at that takes away what little breath I have.

He lets go of my wrists abruptly, both hands sliding down my sides to cup my hips, and I lift them, eagerly, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. He slides along my cleft slowly enough to make us both groan with it, but then he is resting at my entrance, slowly pushing forward, dragging low, guttural moans from me. Even now, my body still is not quite used to the size of him, and I cry out as he strikes bottom. Shaking with a momentary inability to move, I don't quite realise what he's doing until he's already done it.

He switches our position, straddling my thigh and pulling my other leg up over his chest, and cants his hips to the side. Suddenly, he is far too big, and I clutch his leg in strangled shock. He gives me no time to argue, however, and sets an almost brutal pace that, nevertheless, has me shattering for him in a matter of moments. I cannot gather the breath to utter more than a high-pitched keen, bucking and thrashing against him, but the weight of him pinning down my hip coupled with his iron grip on my ankle, serves only to drive him into me again and again, no matter how I may writhe.

I curl up, half on my side by now, stomach muscles contracting with the effort of trying to meet him, the depth of his thrusts bordering on pain, and the strobing radiance of orgasm blinding me again and again.

I am not a fan of new positions. I like being able to see his face, and I like sometimes to be hips up with my face in the pillow, but up until now, everything else I could take it or leave it, because I couldn't see any advantage of one position over another, not really. But this? I cannot believe how incredible it feels.

The hand he had wrapped about my ankle suddenly loses its grip, slipping down my calf, and my leg begins to drop, taking away that exquisite pressure. I whimper in frustration as the glow of the next imminent crest begins to recede. Looking up the long line of his body, I see him as I never have, entirely unguarded, lost in me. His lips parted, his hair hanging in his face, his brows furrowed, I see the moment when his own tide rises, feel it within me as he swells, and I fight to keep my eyes open for once, even though he's dragging me with him. The look of unfettered, transcendent joy on his face in the moment of his completion strikes my soul like a hot brand, and I cry out, arching against him as that final heavy throbbing sends waves of burning pleasure across every mote of my being.

Tangled and sweating, wrapped 'round each other tightly, we catch our breath amidst a flurry of passionate kisses. Finally, I lie exhausted against his chest, his heart beating strongly beneath my ear. "You need a ring," I murmur, lacing my fingers with his.

"Hmm? Mmh - and why is that?" His sleepy voice is muffled by my hair, and I sigh happily.

"Where I come from, a ring on the fourth finger of the left hand signifies marriage," I say, followed by a jaw-cracking yawn. The light blanket suddenly slithers across my back, and I cuddle closer to him as he tucks us in.

"Then we shall visit the market," he says, interrupted by an echo of my yawn, "Just as soon as you can walk again, hm? And perhaps we will wait for daylight, too," he adds, sleepily.

I laugh quietly, my hand curling protectively about the side of his neck. "I love you," I whisper, on the edge of unconsciousness. I don't hear what he says, not really, but the way he tightens around me as I slip into the shadows of the Fade tells me everything I need to know.


	16. Echoes

BIG FAT WARNING: This one carries triggers for abuse and rape. Viewer discretion, and all that.

I am running through the forest. Everything is sunlight-kissed, gloriously dappled in a million shades of green, and the ground springs beneath my feet. I can smell moss and the damp scent of decomposing leaves, wetness from an overnight rain. I stop abruptly, closing my eyes and breathing deep. There is no salt-tang to the air; these are not my woods. When I look around again, a full-length mirror has appeared in the centre of my path, amidst the bracken of a small clearing between the trees. It's rather heavy, with a squared frame made of dark, uncarved walnut.

"Oh, great. 'Cause _that_ bodes well," I mutter to my reflection; she hovers nervously in the clearing, lonely and uncertain. This is how horror movies start. Having a sudden thought, I look around, focusing on what I can see just from the corners of my eyes, and I realize that I must be in the Fade, as everything goes all fish-eyed and blurry around the edges. "Crap."

I'm in the middle of nowhere-land, walking demon-bait. I've got to find someplace I'm supposed to be, and quick. Closing my eyes, I take deep breaths and conjure up the well-worn memory of my grandmother's house: red bricks and rose bushes, raspberry patch and swing set, apple tree and sea glass. I think about the feel of the maroon shag carpet under my fingers, but the vision slips away like an eel. I chase it, trying to focus on the memory of helping Papa install bookcases and a bench-seat in the pop-out on the front of the house, but it fades, in my nervousness, and I can't summon it back. Why can't I think of home? I've thought of nowhere else since she died and Mom sold the house.

I try to calm down my breathing. No reason to panic, right? I'm only standing in an unfamiliar wood in front of a gods-be-damned mirror. Just breathe.

I think of my own house: my shed, my work, my tools, the sound of the ocean and the scent of the air, the wind chime and Wanderer mewling at the back door. It's as distant from me as a faded post card. Opening my eyes again, I find myself still in the same spot.

With a feeling of cold dread, it occurs to me that I might have been gone too long from my own world, that I may not be able to reach these places anymore.

Slowly backing away from the mirror, I put a tree between me and it before I turn around, only to be confronted with the mirror again, as though I had never walked away from it at all. I swallow, feeling a sheen of sweat break out on my upper lip. How the hell does that happen, in a dream? I wonder, as I wipe the wetness on my shirt cuff. I don't know; all I can say is that it feels way too real, which is never a good sign.

I give myself a little internal pep-talk, mind racing. Okay, okay, no thinking about scary stuff; this place will respond to thoughts, right? How do I get out of this? Running away from it isn't going to work; the idiot protagonist victim always turns and runs, or repeats the same action, to no positive effect. So I will resist the urge to bolt, and the urge to try to put another tree between me and it. I let out another shaking breath, curling and uncurling my hands, keeping my eye on the mirror. Right. Right, think. Logic. I need help. So who do I need right now? Well, who always rescued me in my dreams, before?

"Nolan," I whisper. He hasn't spoken to me since I first got here, since I frightened him, but he's the only one I can call on right now... Whoever he really is. It takes me a minute, in that preternatural silence, to screw up my courage, but I have to. Even if it wakens something in the mirror, I _have_ to try to summon him. It's only the fourth time in all my life I've attempted it. "Nolan!" I shout, pressing my back to a tree, eyes locked in terror on the mirror, in case it might move. My voice is disappointingly thin, and I swallow, trying again. "Nolan!" This time fear lends me more volume, and something about it rattles my bones. I hope that's a good sign.

His voice comes from so close it makes me jump. "Lily?" I turn quickly to find him standing just behind me, to the side of the tree. Looking around, his hazel eyes grow wider, and he looks well and truly frightened when his gaze meets mine. That's terrifying for me, because he's always been the confident one, the one who knows everything about where we are, who always has a grip on events. His pale skin has gone pasty white, making his blood-red hair stand out like a halo around his head. "What have you done?" he whispers, taking a step back, and I can feel myself going pale to match. He's always rescued me from my nightmares. _Always_.

I feel desperate. I've known this man since I was small; we grew up together. It doesn't matter if I thought it was just my own sleeping fantasies, everything has come true lately, and I can't afford to think too much - I just have to keep hurtling forward. I speak quickly, all in a rush, holding my hands out to him in supplication. "I have no idea what's going on. Nolan, you know me! I haven't done _anything_. Please, just take me home." I can feel tears stinging my eyes, and he begins to look uncertain, wavering. Why doesn't he trust me anymore? "I just want to go back to Gramma's house. Please, please, Nolan, you've always got me out of everything. You're the only person I know I can trust."

At last, he comes forward, cautiously, and takes my hand. The feel of him is reassuringly solid. I expect us to begin hovering, as usual, but my feet remain firmly planted on the ground. I look up, surprised, thinking perhaps then he's just gathering himself for a jump, but he is only looking at me, gravely. "We have to run. I can try to lead you out, but you're-" His head snaps back as he looks up at the sky suddenly, scanning it with great care as he absently pulls me against his side out of habit. I roll my eyes upward, wondering what he's looking for, but he claps a hand over them with a muffled oath. "No! Never look up!" I can feel by the set of his shoulder that he hasn't looked down, clearly disobeying his own order, but I know better than to question him; he's always known the rules of this place.

"It's seen us!" he whispers, fiercely. "Run!" The sudden tug on my arm as he bolts jars me up to my shoulder, but I am well-versed in _this_, running after him at high speed through dream landscapes. All I have to do is concentrate on my feet, letting the world blur past me as I follow my dream-life best friend and protector. He changes direction three times, but finally comes to a halt, breathing heavily. We are facing the mirror, still. "Lily, oh gods, Lily," he pants, shaking his head, turning toward me. "I don't know what you've done, but you're too solid, and you glow too much. Put your light down."

I look down at my hands, and I don't see what he means; I look like myself, to me. With another curse under his breath, he tackles me, covering me with his own body. A cloak falls down around us, making a tent about me. In the darkness beneath this impromptu shelter, I can see my skin glowing softly. "Too late, darlin'. I tried..." Nolan says, almost conversationally, but I can hear the strain in his voice, and I look up sharply. He looks pained, and wraps his arms around me tightly, and then he just... isn't there. Like he'd never been.

"Nolan!" I shout, but there is no answer, and my voice falls curiously flat in the oppressive silence. I look back at the mirror again, and realize that the lush greenery of the forest has begun to wilt and turn brown like a time-lapse camera, rushing from spring to late autumn. The day is growing darker as the leaves fall from the trees, and I have to fight myself to not look up out of habit to check the position of the sun. There isn't one. A darkening means a change. Fairy tale rules are horror movie rules, I realize, and that makes me want to vomit with the sudden fear that roars over me. And what's the one thing I just can't seem to get away from, no matter where I go? Mirrors. Even Lily Mahariel had a dysfunctional relationship with mirrors.

A very cold November wind freezes my fingers and my nose as the last of the leaves fall, skeletal fingers of the trees scratching the grey sky. A frost rimes some of the grass around me, and I shiver. November, the time of year when I left home. Oh, home. I try to reach it again, but I'm too terrified by now, and the mirror holds my horrified and fascinated gaze. I shriek when a hand reaches out of it, even though I half-expected this. I know there's no use trying to run, so all I can do is stand there, petrified, watching the person emerging - and it _is_ a person. In fact... it's...

My stomach drops into my shoes at the sight of that familiar smile. "Lily," he says, sauntering toward me. "Lily... Ohhh, Lily," he says, shaking his head, that wry smile on his lips and the way he draws out my name telling me he's masking a serious white-hot rage behind a façade of humour. I can't breathe. I shake my head, fighting the strange slipperiness of my thoughts. _He's not real, he's not real,_ I tell myself, trying to hold on to my logic.

"Where the hell did you think you were _going_?" he asks, restless and impatient. I blink, and we're standing in the house again, the familiar bulk of my furniture around me, my grandmother's carpet under my feet, the fire at my back. I look down at myself, feeling curiously heavy. My clothes and coat are soaked, dripping sea water on the floor, and I'm frozen through, my fingernails still tinged blue, my hair scraggling all over the place, stuck to my coat in long clumped strands, a piece of seaweed in it. I touch the seaweed, find it slimy between my fingers, and pick it from my hair, feeling the numbness of shock begin to fill me up. The wind howls outside, the storm still raging. I didn't drown? I didn't drown.

"I... What?" I ask, looking around, losing my train of thought. What happened? Then I remember - the book. I was trying to protect the book. My eyes catch a flicker of movement and I look back to find him holding it. My journal. That's incredibly important; he must never lay his hands on that, but he has it, and I have to get it back from him somehow.

"Oh yes," he says, seeing my horror. "I found it. Your slutty faithlessness, damning you by your own handwriting. I told you to be done with that game," he says, biting off the words, tapping the binding of the book against one palm as he sizes me up. "But here I find that not only have you been playing it behind my back, you've been cheating on me, too."

I swallow. "It's not real. It's just a game," I say, mechanically. "How could I be cheating if it's just a story?"

His face darkens, and I take an involuntary step backward, fetching up against the hearth. "Don't lie to me, Lily. If that man opened the door, you'd open your legs - that's cheating, The End." He sighs, looking down at his hands, the picture of patience worn thin. "I know you have another copy, Lily. Give it to me." My lip trembles as I hesitate, and I see his fingers flex on the cover of my journal.

I don't know what makes me do it, but I lift my chin, just a fraction. "No." I know, with a grim sort of fatalism, that I'll pay for that, but right now, it's worth it. Hopefully I'll still think so later.

The wild flash of anger in his eyes turns my knees to water a moment before his arm snaps out, and he casually backhands me. I rock back, stumbling against the hearth and catching myself on the mantel. Bringing my fingers up to my lip, I taste blood. "Give me the game, Lily, or things are going to get real ugly, real quick. I already had to drag you off the beach over it. You know it's freezing cold out there, and raining hard enough to soak through my coat? And you're not exactly _light_, you know. I've completely screwed up my shoulder dragging your fat ass back here after your delusional little tantrum. I haul you in here, saving your life after you throw it away into the ocean over a video game, and instead of any kind of regret or even some fucking humility, I get this. _This_, immaturity and recklessness."

I hang my head. "I'm sorry," I whisper. There's a moment of silence.

"What was that?" he asks, his voice low, but I can feel the thread of unplacated menace behind it.

I clear my throat. "I'm sorry," I repeat, a little louder.

"Good," he says, smooth as silk, and I repress a shudder of revulsion. "Now. Get the game." I move to take off my sodden coat, as it's itchy and cold, but he cuffs me again, making me stagger in the opposite direction, and the angry coil of an impending migraine takes up residence at the base of my skull. "I said 'get the game', not 'get undressed', whore," he hisses, and I sniff, trying to control the watering of my eyes and nose. "You may be sorry, but you haven't earned any forgiveness. How can I even trust you now?"

I nod, wordlessly, and trudge back outside. The wind tears at my hair and drives sand down into my shirt. I can feel it grating against my skin beneath my jeans, making me itch everywhere. The closer I get to the shop, Tommy right behind me, the more sick I feel. Standing in the doorway, I reluctantly flip on the light and look around at all the familiar shapes. If I get the game now, with him watching me, he'll know where I hide things. I'll have to find a new hiding place. I go over to the table, resting my hands on it, and I can't do it. I can't bring myself to sever that last tie to the life I wanted so desperately. "No," I say, again, a little bit stronger than last time, and I dare, oh, I dare to look him in the eye. This might end at the hospital again.

He arches his eyebrow sardonically, and holds up the journal, making me pale again. "No? Are you sure about that? There's a nice, cheerful fire in the house, you know. Even wet paper will burn," he says, softly. I am frozen on the point of indecision long enough that he takes my hesitation for further defiance, and loses his patience. Reaching out, he grabs me by the hair before I can duck out of the way, and drags me toward him with a rough jerk, making the pain in my neck flare horribly and spots dance before my eyes. Oh, this migraine will be a bad one.

Striding quickly, knowing I can't keep up, he moves around the corner and out the door, going toward the house as fast as he can, leaving me to stumble after or be dragged by the hair... mostly both. Seems like I meet every rock and the edge of every step on the way back. Once more in the house, he throws me on the floor in front of the hearth, and I land just shy of striking my head on the bricks. The impact knocks the breath from me, and I feel my ribs creak as his knee comes down on my lower back, making the badly aligned bones there scream in agony. His breath is in my ear as he jerks my head back by the hair again so that I have no choice but to look straight into the fire.

"Watch, then. Watch what this is worth. What is it worth, if it can just burn, hm? You spend all this time on _fantasy_, dreaming about fucking another man. You're _crazy_, Lily - certifiable," he says, holding the book closer and closer to the flames. I reach for it, futilely, because I know his reach is much farther than mine, but I can't help it. "And this just proves it. You need help. You've lost touch with reality. This book? It's not _real_. It's not _important_." He tosses the journal into the fire, and I scream. With a terrible rending feeling in my scalp, I break loose, lunge forward, and snatch it out of the flames, clutching it to my breast and curling around it. My burned fingers press the hot paper to my water-logged coat, putting out the sparks.

I'm expecting immediate repercussions, braced for it, but it's so much worse.

He's laughing.

The last time he laughed like that, it was right before he broke my jaw. Scrambling now, I find my feet and scuttle away from him, toward the front door, but he's too fast for me, and beats me to it. I turn and flee, running toward the back door, and he catches me as I have to stop to yank it open, but he's only got hold of my coat, and I shrug out of it as I hurtle through and out into the night, book in hand. The rain lashes me, thunder making my ears ring and lightning flashes blinding me. The sleet hits my skin like a knife, the cold penetrating my bones almost immediately, and my back screams with pain, slowing me despite my adrenaline rush. I whimper, knowing that I'll never get far, no matter how hard I try. The book, the book... I can't even say why it is so critical, but I have to protect it, with my life if necessary.

Maybe I _am_ crazy.

Tommy is right behind me, cursing and fuming, and I feel his hands close around my upper arms, crushing me, bruising as he pulls me against his chest. He growls in my ear, "I've had just about enough of you tonight, Lily. I'm going to put you in a shower, scrub all this filth off of you, and then we're going to bed, and I'm going to remind you who it is you really belong to."

The terror this inspires in me knows no bounds. "No, no," I whimper, as he steers me into the house with an iron grip. I struggle, but it's no use, not against his strength; he can just pick me up and take me there. "Not again, not again," I beg, as he drags me into the bathroom, but he's entirely impassive now. I struggle as he tries to pull my shirt off of me, so he just rips it, shredding the back, and then throws the ripped pieces on the floor in exasperation. See what I made him do.

"Are you going to behave, or do I have to rip you out of your jeans, too?" he asks, and I bow my head. That hurts, really bad. I do not want that. I take off my boots, and shove my jeans down, struggling free of the wet denim. Unceremoniously, he grabs me by the elbow and shoves me forward so that I have no choice but to either step over the edge of the tub or trip and kiss porcelain.

He grabs a bath puff and turns the water on, scrubbing me until I turn pink, scalding me with water hot enough to make me feel dizzy and sick. When he insists on washing my hair for me, as well, I discover by the sting of his harsh fingers that some of it must've been ripped out when I went after the book. Finally deeming me satisfactory, he drags me back out and shoves me toward the bed. I stumble, but keep my feet, and stand next to it, naked and dripping.

"Get on the bed, Lily," he says, but I shake my head. The thought of his hands on me fills me with a revulsion so acute, it is shocking to me, entirely new in its intensity. This is dangerous; I'm usually able to just play pretend, think of someone else, pretend I'm someone else, because it hurts more if I fight, and that's just not worth it. But not this time. For some reason, the thought of anyone's hands on me but Zevran's - but particularly _Tommy's_ - makes me want to vomit, fills me with suicidal defiance.

Maybe I _am_ crazy.

Tommy's lip curls. "I'm losing patience with you. You're perfectly happy to play the whore right up to the moment when you might actually have to put your money where your mouth is, and suddenly you don't want it? I don't think so. I can tell you haven't been getting enough just by the way you write," he says darkly, unbuckling his belt.

I can feel my hands shaking as that strip of leather slithers free, and I clench my fists, closing my eyes. I know what's coming. He's got me naked and cornered in the bedroom; there's only one way this can go, now, because if I fight, he'll put me in the chest, and that hurts so much worse. The first lash catches me straight across the breasts, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of my scream. If I just stand still and take my lashes, then he'll get bored and just do his business. After that, he'll sleep, and then maybe I can creep off to the shop. Maybe I'll find my book.

I can't fight him whipping me, but when it comes to the point where he throws me into the bed, my stomach rolls, and I wonder if I really am going to be sick. My body hates him. The loathing I feel fills me so completely that I cannot help but fight him, thrashing despite how his grip bruises me. "Stop, please, stop!" I beg, shoving hard at him and yanking on my arms, trying to get free of him. If I give in, if I can make him think I'll be willing if he'll stop, he might not break me this time. "You're hurting me! It doesn't have to be like this, baby! Listen to me!" But the begging does no good at all, as he presses me down into the bed and crushes me under his weight, driving the breath from me. I flail, screaming little squeaks at the pain as he shoves himself roughly inside me, and then there is just nothing but the pain and the sound of my own voice, begging for it to stop.

Somewhere in the midst of this, I hear a whispering, a small voice, a murmur, and I strain to hear it, hoping maybe someone has come who will finally make him stop. "Help!" I shout, breathless with being crushed by both man and fear.

"_Cara?_"

Oh gods, I know that voice. "Zev!" I whimper, before I can stop myself. I need him, so very badly that it rips at my heart. Tommy snarls, biting me hard on the shoulder.

"You call out _his_ name?" he spits, becoming more brutal, and I start sobbing.

"_Cara!_" Oh, I can still hear him. The hot tears pour across my cheeks, both because of the pain of what Tommy is doing, and the madness of my delusion being just that - he's not real. This is all there is, all there will ever be. How stupid of me to desire anything more.

I have a man who works to bring food into the house, and pays for everything we need, who manages the money for us and makes sure that we have nice things. He is real, and I am crazy over a character.

"I'm sorry- I'm sorry-" I gasp, not sure if I'm apologising to Tommy or my lost, unreal Zev.

"Tell me you love me, Lily," Tommy demands, and my stomach rolls again. Something within me strikes a hollow note, like the silence after the tolling of a bell, and I feel a deep foreboding.

"No!" I say, the only thing I can refuse to give, no matter what he does. I get an arm free and there follows a flurry of activity as he tries to get hold of me again, and I repeatedly shout "No!" I get my elbow up, cracking him in the nose, and he rears back with a shout. I have both hands free, so I yank my legs up, ignoring the burst of fire in my lower back, and knee him in the junk as hard as I can. I don't have much leverage, but it's just enough to squash something, and he howls. Struggling free, I lunge sideways, but get tangled in the sheet and land on my head on the floor.

I scramble away from the bed, panicked and hyperventilating, and get my feet under me. Turning my back to it, I bolt for the bedroom door, and hit solid wall at full speed, knocking myself flat on my back. Still in full panic, I skitter to the side, thinking maybe if I can reach the closet, I can wedge myself into the hollow behind the water heater. It's a temporary solution, at best, but he can't reach me there. I scrabble around in the dark, on the verge of screaming, but all I find is blank wall. No closet.

The wall is made of plaster. There is an open window to my back, in the wrong place, and a cool breeze scented with salt and something heavy like jasmine wafts in, stirring my hair. It occurs to me that Tommy ought to have got hold of me by now, since I haven't been able to get out of the room in the last handful of heartbeats, and it's almost entirely silent, save for the panting of a dog. I blink, thoroughly confused, and turn around. A shadow on the bed detaches itself from the darkness and stalks toward me, resolving itself into the familiar shape of Zevran as he leans forward into the weak light that comes through the window. "Lily, _amora mia_, talk to me, tell me you are awake," he says, worry and empathy in his voice.

"_Am_ I awake?" I echo, my voice thin and reedy. I reach out, suddenly suffocating without him, and at the touch of his hands, throw myself into his arms. "Oh gods, oh gods, please tell me I'm awake. Please tell me this is real," I beg, all in a rush, as he gathers me up. "I don't want to be there, I don't, I don't," I whimper.

"Shhh... _Sì, cara_, you are awake," he says soothingly, running his hands over my hair and shoulders. "_You are safe with me, my wife, he cannot touch you now,"_ Zev whispers to me in Antivan as I shudder in the aftershocks of my terror. I am so beyond relieved, so overwhelmed with joy that I'm here, and not _there_, that I break into hysterical sobbing, clinging tightly.

Eventually, I calm down, secure within his arms, comforted by the stability and warmth of him, and pull back a little. My eyes are swollen and hot, my cheeks sticky from weeping, and my hands shake, but I have to get something to drink, and wash my face. Looking around, I realize we're still on the floor. Zev smooths my hair back off my face and I can see his worried expression by the grey light of pre-dawn. "That was the w-worst dream," I say, my voice breaking on the last word, and a fresh flood of tears pours down my face, but the wracking sobs seem to be over now.

Zev regards me quietly for a time, as I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to stop the stream. "Do you wish to speak of it?" he asks, at last.

I shake my head, still feeling miserable, but beginning to regain my bearings. "No... no, talking about him summoned him, seems like. I want to banish him. Let's... I know it's dawn, but I just can't sleep anymore. I... Think I'm going to go down and get a little something to eat, try to... do something normal," I say, disentangling myself and struggling to my feet.

Zev rises smoothly; so graceful, my man is. "I shall come with you."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The late-morning sun burns my back through my dress, and I can feel the perspiration gathering under my breasts and trickling down my neck. This is the fifth merchant we've tried, and so far, none of them have quite what I'm looking for. The first artist dealt mostly in heavy settings for matte stones like turquoise. The second was overly fond of cabochons, and the third worked exclusively in twisted wire, which was beautiful, but ultimately wouldn't stand up to the way Zev uses his hands. The last one couldn't resist carving geometric patterns into everything he created, and so now we stand in front of a small shop with a brightly painted sign proudly proclaiming it to be "_Tesori di Tartaglia"_.

I know we're in the right place the moment we step inside. The first thing my eye lands on is a necklace made with silver and topaz, twisted about with chain and dripping with loops and swirls, an Art Nouveau piece if I've ever seen one. The woman at the counter turns around, and I see with a bit of a start that she's an elf - the style of the half-finished bracelet in her hand proving her to be the first elven business-owner I've met. She puts on a pleasant smile and greets us in Italian. "_Good afternoon, welcome to Tartaglia's Treasures; please let me know if I may be of assistance to you."_

Zev nods to her, and I pretend not to hear, as I am busy looking over a tray of rings. The designs pressed into these are far more graceful than I would have expected, considering what I've seen so far, and I think these are the sort of thing I might have seen in an antique shop at home. "Ah, perfect," I murmur. By now, I know that his ring-finger is the size of my index finger, so I begin quickly trying on those that look likely to fit, until I have a small pile to choose from. After I eliminate those that are too feminine, too narrow, too fragile, or not exactly 'wedding band' material, I've got three.

Everything always comes in threes, it seems.

I look up at Zev, standing just to one side of me, making small-talk with the proprietress, and take his hand. He pays that no mind, being used to such a gesture, but he leaves off abruptly when I drop the rings into it.

After a moment of surprise, the elven lady smiles knowingly, watching the way that Zev stares at them. Slowly, he tries them on, and of course, they fit. He holds his hand out, looking at each one in turn, then looks back at me. I swallow, feeling really, really awkward, the image of a ring on his finger blazing like a brand. Oh gods. We'll see that ring, every day, for the rest of our lives. "Which one, _amora_?" he asks me softly, but I shake my head.

"You choose; it's your finger. I like all of them."

He immediately sets aside the ornate one, still studying the two in his palm, and I hold my breath. At last, he sets aside the other gold one, as well, and holds the silver one out to me, in the centre of his palm. Something uncertain flickers in his eyes, and my heart cracks a little bit for it. I've never been more certain of anything in my life. I take the ring from him as the woman puts away the other two. It feels curiously heavy in my hand, now that I've got it, now that the decision's made.

"You said this is the custom where you come from, yes?" he asks, and I nod. "Then we must also have one for you, is that not so?"

I swallow, feeling my heartbeat speed. Why is this freaking me out? "I already have one," I say, tipping my head so that my short hair swings away from my ear, but he shakes his head. Pulling me aside, so that we may speak privately, he turns my back to the woman and leans down to whisper in my ear.

"It is important to me, yes, but that-" He touches my ear. "It is a symbol of what was begun. This-" he says, cupping the hand I've got curled around his ring, "This is for what has come after."

"But-"

He shushes me with a finger to my lips. "When you saw it on my hand, you had the most curious look upon your face. Tell me what you were thinking just then."

"It... That's the sign of marriage," I say, helplessly, knowing now that I can't wiggle out of it. I'll be wearing one, too.

"I know it is important to you, but you do not think the same when you touch the earring, do you?"

I bite my lip, but at last, I shake my head. "I think, _he loves me_."

There's that 'I trapped you' smile again. "But if you wore one such as this, you would think 'wife', would you not?" Seeing I cannot argue the point, he continues, "Find another, _amora_."

"I have to pick out my own?"

He pauses, looking down at the ring cupped between us. "Hmm... You have a point. Show me which will fit your finger, and I shall do for you as you have done for me, yes?"

I nod, turning back to the tray of rings, and we determine that my ring finger is the size of his pinkie. I stand nervously to one side while he methodically sorts through the tray in much the same way I did. I set aside the rose gold one, because just... no. I don't do pink, if I can help it. The other two are not so easy to choose between, but in the end, I go for the one I like best: the silver. Besides, they're supposed to match, right? And they sort of do, with their scroll patterns and plain edges.

Zev takes the two rings and haggles for them, at last handing over close to a sovereign in silver. The lady puts them in a small, patterned paper box, and Zev tucks them into an inside pocket of his vest.

We eat a tense lunch in near silence, keenly aware of each other's presence, pressed together as discreetly as possible, side-by-side in a crowded pub. We steal glances and covert caresses, and I'm practically mad with desire as we push our way out of the crush and into the afternoon sunlight.

As we head back down toward the docks, a tiny child runs up to us, barefooted and in a raggedy tunic, a piece of parchment clutched in her fist. She holds her hand up, jumping up and down. "_You! You!"_ she says, looking up at me. I take the paper, and she runs off before I can think of any questions to ask.

"That reminds me of another time and place," I murmur, and he nods, examining the seal.

"And well it should." I cast him a sidelong glance, and he runs his finger over a little flower-sun-something design in one corner.

Cracking the wax, I unfold it and scan it quickly.

"Ah... Riddles," Zev murmurs, looking over my shoulder. Trying to pick apart the Antivan, to me it looks like nothing so much as a simple letter from a husband to his wife, speaking of mundane affairs in his merchant trade. His brother was expecting a shipment, but it was late, making it difficult for him to pay his men. Fortunately, he knows the families... Oh... If Zev can work out who this is about, it looks like there's a scary wealth of information here.

I look up, scanning the crowds, as Zev gently pulls the letter from my hands to get a closer look at it. No one seems to be paying us any mind. Of course, they _wouldn't_ seem to, if they were doing their job right, anyway. I'm not going to catch a Crow that way, and even if I did, I wouldn't know it. It's not like they wear little name tags that say, "Hello! I'm a Crow. How may I assassinate you today?"

When I look back at Zev, he's tucked the letter away and is doing the same sort of scan that I just did, but with apparently better results, as he smiles nonchalantly and takes my hand. "Ah, _cara_," he says, tucking it into the crook of his elbow, "Would you like to see that little _giardino_ by day?"

I blush, he smirks, and we go. I can't argue the fact that I wasn't exactly paying much attention to the scenery the last time we went there. The garden is absolutely gorgeous by day, a riot of colours and heavenly scents. I'm embarrassed to find that our "secluded arbour" is actually pretty much open to whomever might've been walking by. We were truly clothed in nothing but the darkness. Looking back over his shoulder at me, he catches my flaming expression and smirks knowingly when he follows the direction of my gaze. He takes me to another part of the garden, though, to where a little stream burbles down over a pile of rocks. Here, the curving of the garden wall, a low-hanging willow branch, and a wild-growing ivy plant combine to create a hidden hollow, cool and dark, sheltered from the heat of the day.

I sigh in relief, letting out a quiet little moan of pleasure at the touch of the moist air, and close my eyes, basking in it. I haven't felt anything this cool since I got here. "Ohhh... It almost feels like actual rain," I breathe, and I hear him laugh softly.

"I knew you would like it," he says, pleased.

Light filters in through gaps in the rocks, shining through the falling water, mottling his skin in flickering light and shadow. He reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out the little box, spilling the rings into his palm. They overlap each other, mine atop his, sparking with a touch of sunlight. Seeing them together like that stops my heart, and I swallow.

When I look up, he is watching me, gears clicking in his head, and I think that maybe this gesture, while certainly important to him, is more about the culturally ingrained emotional trigger this evokes in _me_. Ah, and maybe I've got a glimmer of reading him better, because he says, "What else goes with this ritual, _cara_?" and I swallow hard, my mouth gone dry.

"Uh... Well, I'm supposed to wear an expensive white dress with a white veil made of lace, and then you're supposed to have a certain type of suit on, and then there's a priest, and the vows, and then-"

"Vows?" he asks, and I bite my lip.

"Yeah..." I continue, a little more softly. "You say it when you put the ring on the other person's finger." And so I find myself saying, "...to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, to honor and obey, from this day forward, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, for as long as we both shall live," barely feeling serious, until I slide the ring over his knuckle and see it resting there.

Lulled by the sound of rushing water, the familiar damp coolness, and the proximity of each other, we linger there in the semi-dark. After a time, desire fanned to inferno once more, we determine that heading home is a good idea. He chases me, making me run down the last corridor to our room, but he catches me as I fumble with the latch, pressing me against the door. Oh gods, I can _feel_ him.

The door gives way under my hands, and we practically fall through it. His arm around my waist pulls me backward again, as I hear the door bang shut behind us and Ponka flop down on the stone with a heavy whuff. Zev's already got my skirt hiked up to my waist by the time we've staggered over to the bed - mostly at my insistence; I just don't like doing it standing up. It never feels very stable, even with Zev and how strong he is. I'm always worried, which isn't sexy.

Somehow, from his urgency, I had got the impression that he intended to ravish me immediately, but he has other things in mind, taking things so slow that I'm surprised I don't set the bed on fire with the heat of my desire when he _finally_ lets me have him. Once we're... able to concentrate again, it's full dark. Zev sits at the desk under the window in nothing but his pants, holding the letter, and translates it for me by the light of the candle at his elbow.

"Hmm... 'My eternal darling'- that means you, I believe. 'Our business fares better than we thought it would, this year.' That is good news, yes? 'However, my brother's ship of wine foundered off the coast, and he has lost all his profits.' 'Brothers' - that is, the other Masters. 'Wine' is blood, 'foundered' - insubordination, and 'lost profits' - casualties. There is a revolt in progress, it would seem. 'To make matters worse, the foreman has become ill, leaving the warehouse in the hands of the stock boys.' That is even more interesting, _cara_, the Crow Master has become toothless in the eyes of the Masters, meaning that the other Masters must work together to effect any changes, and with their attention taken up by the revolt, that will be next to impossible. 'All my letters to him have gone unanswered,' he says, meaning that communication between the Masters has broken down. It may take a while for word of our doings to get to other cells, muddying the waters when it comes to determining when and where we have been moving.

"'My sister and her children are doing well.' There is only one woman Master, and she has trained two others - so they are sympathetic. 'She sends her regards, and hopes that she might be able to see you soon. The children wish to play with our collection of toy soldiers.' I believe they wish to know whether the other Wardens intend to get involved. 'They do not know that you have recovered from your sickness; I believe they will be glad to see you.' Ah. It is Ignacio who wonders about the Wardens; the Crows still believe you to be a ghost. 'I've sent an order to the perfumery for the oils you requested. I expect that they should be arriving within a fortnight.' That's all for now, as far as our allies are concerned, though he has begun contacting those who expressed interest before. 'I've done my best to settle our debts.' He has been working quite hard to find out who is against us, in that case. 'But I fear I will not be able to pay the tanner, and there is still a substantial sum owing to the dock-master for our last shipment.' Hmmm... 'The tanner'..."

Zev frowns. "I believe I know who he is referring to. They are obvious targets, well-established Masters with a great deal of influence and very large cells. To take them down will destabilize the rest of them and plunge the entire order into certain chaos. 'I thought about seeing our friend the innkeeper for a loan, but I fear that he may be stretched thin, himself.' That would be the Master who tends to take in the troubled ones, those who do not adjust so well to the life of a Crow. Whatever it is that he does, his Crows tend to be elite, and it is good news indeed that he is sympathetic to us, however it seems that his own cell may also be in revolt. 'Perhaps if we invite him to dinner, we can find a way to strengthen our friendship and help each other, so don't forget to polish the silver.' Well, that is clear enough. And that would appear to be the end of it, as he simply signs 'your beloved husband' at the bottom."

I have to make a conscious effort to let go of the hem of my tunic, as it is now balled up in my fist. I want to pace, but I don't think I could walk that much right now. "So... we have two cells we know we need to take down, and four we need to court?" At Zev's nod, I continue, "So these two... will we... is this..." I swallow, taking a deep breath. "Do we have to kill all of them, or can we work our way from the top down?"

He rolls up the letter and taps it against his knee as he thinks. "There are many ways we could approach such a thing, but first we must gather information. Where are they located? How loyal are their top men? What are their patterns? There is much to learn, and little time in which to do it." His lips thin out to a hard line, and the sudden coldness of his expression makes my heart stop. My husband is a Crow - deadly warrior, cold pragmatist - and though I have known it, and have watched him move, I have never _seen_ the Crow in him, and it is well and truly frightening.

"I will be gone for a time," he says, and even his voice has changed. I shiver. His eyes soften, but there's still that predator now, like watching a panther pacing in its cage, staring at you and wondering when or if the bars will disappear, so it can eat you. I help him put on his armour, and I find that he keeps one of his knives strapped to the underside of his upper arm, tucked against the edge of his brassard plate, so that you'd never know it was there.

"Ah-hah!" I murmur, tightening the buckle, "I found one."

He smirks. "One, tch. Keep looking, _cara_, there are fifteen more." He laughs at my startled expression. In the next moment, he is dead serious, crowding me, making me back up until I hit the wall. He kisses me with enough heat to curl my toes, melting me into his arms, and I feel the scrape of his leather skirt-thing against the inside of my thigh. He holds me hard against him, his breath coming just a touch too fast, and I can feel the tension in him. "_Ti adoro,"_ he murmurs against my lips. His fingertips whisper over my face, as though he wants to memorize the shape of me to his hands, and then he is stepping back, agony in the lines around his eyes, like he has to tear himself away. In two long strides, he is out the window and gone. I dash over to it, but the only things I see moving are the leaves of the tree and a lazily wandering cat. On the off-chance that he is watching, I blow a kiss into the night.

"Goodbye, my love, and be careful," I whisper.

_Oh beautiful, fearsome, and wise Athena, lend us your protection as we carry out our duty. Oh wild, fleet, and brilliant Hermes, we are your children. Lend your strengths to my Zevran, and watch over him, please, please let him come home safe to me._


	17. Prayers

I think it's going to take me hours to fall asleep, pacing and fretting, but after everything that's happened lately, I just can't keep my eyes open. Eventually, I give up fighting it and lie down to sleep.

I'd forgotten my nightmare, but it hadn't forgotten me.

When I open my eyes, I realize with fright that my back is screaming with agony, and I can hardly breathe. My knees are pushed tight against my chest, my forehead resting against wood. I'm boxed in, pressed on every side, in the darkness. I'm in the chest.

_I'm in the chest._

Oh gods. Zev, the rings, the way he kisses me, oh gods... Just a dream. No, no, no it's not... But how is that even possible? It's not. Could it all be just a dream? Have I finally cracked? There's no such thing as magic. Maybe I _am_ crazy.

I concentrate on taking slow, deep breaths, because I know by now that hyperventilating from crying only makes me pass out from lack of oxygen. Distantly, I can hear thudding and thumping, and I wonder what the hell Tommy might be doing.

It doesn't take long for me to find out.

There is silence, and then I can hear his footsteps coming closer, stopping in front of the trunk. I hear the key in the lock, and the lid lifts, letting in a breath of cool air that dries the sweat on my face. "Oh. You're awake," he says, not amused, and I roll my eyes to the side, looking up at him, because I can't really turn my head very well in this position. I can tell by my ankles that it's been at least two hours, but my shoulders haven't got the stabbing pains into the joints yet, and there's no migraine yet, though it's brewing, so it's been less than eight. In either case, I can't get up by myself, and even if I could, I couldn't walk very far, let alone run.

He knows this.

Standing over me, he folds his arms, shaking his head, purposely leaving me down here while he lectures me. "You've gone crazy, Lily," he says, his voice low and weary. "Entirely lost your marbles. You can't tell the difference between reality and fantasy. You don't know where you are, half the time. You tried to commit suicide. You're calling out the name of a _character_ in the middle of sex. You're lost. But it's okay, honey, I'm going to take care of you." There is that hollow tolling of the bell, that dark foreboding. I knew, oh, I knew something bad was going to happen. Here it comes.

Reaching down into the box, he grabs my arm and hauls me out, and no matter what, I always have to scream, because my back can't take it, the sudden unfolding after so much forced immobility in an unnatural position. He gets me by both arms while my mind is still filled with the white-hot agony, and by the time I can pay attention to where we are, we're outside, headed for the shop. There is no way I can fight; my back hurts so much I can't even walk right now. "Tommy?" My voice is high and reedy. "What are you doing?"

"You're delusional. Completely schizo. You need help. I'm not going to send you to an institution, though. Those places are horrible, unsanitary; women get raped in there. You don't have to do that. You can stay here at home, safe. I'll take care of you. Everything's going to be okay." My dawning terror threatens to choke me. Oh gods, this is how horror movies happen.

"What?" I don't have time for any other question, as he swings open the door to my shop, and I stare around in horrified fascination. He's turned my bench into a make-shift cot, boarded up the window, and removed all my supplies and tools. The room is barren, except for the sink, my table and stool in the centre, and the big mirror on the wall.

He left the mirror in here on purpose. He left me with nothing to cover it on purpose. Ever since he read that paper on 'mirror therapy' and decided that there was nothing that couldn't be cured by forcing a person to look themselves in the eye. My fear of mirrors has always meant to him that I must be a liar, hiding things. I'll never sleep. Never. Oh gods.

He dumps me unceremoniously on the bench, and stands up, looking down at me with disapproval. Tommy, amateur psychologist, who took two semesters of psych in college and thinks he knows what he's doing.

"Now, I looked and looked, but you hid the game really well. I'm going to get rid of it, Lily. You have to tell me where you put it. You'll never get better until it's gone."

I bite my lip, deliberating. _Apollo, lend me your grace._ "I'll trade you," I say, daring, and he narrows his eyes. _Hermes favour me with good fortune..._

"You're not exactly in a position to bargain, Lily," he says, and the warning note in his voice makes me quail, but I have to ask.

"No, I- I know. I just... Look, I'll give you the game. But- but I just want one thing."

His mouth thins out to a hard line, and I shiver. "What," he asks, his voice soft and dangerous, and I swallow, but it can't really get any worse.

"I want my book. I'll trade you the game for my book."

He sighs testily. "The book is part of your delusion, Lily. It's not good for you to have it."

"Please. Please, Tommy. I just... want to say goodbye."

His lip curls, and he looks at me with sympathy and menace. After a moment, he speaks again. "I won't allow you to use it like a crutch. You can have it for a few days, but then it has to go, too. Where's the game?"

I take a deep breath. One thing at a time. "I'll get it, if you let me out."

He narrows his eyes at me again. "You can't leave this room, Lily. You need peace and quiet, a safe and stable place to regain your sanity."

I shake my head. "No, no I won't try to do anything. I just... I'll get it. Please? How could I do anything? You'll be able to see me the whole time."

He growls, but finally gives in. "Fine. Come on then."

I struggle painfully to my feet, and he sighs with exasperation. "Give me a second? I need to stretch a little." He grunts in assent, and after a few moments where I slowly arch my back, trying to get the kinks out, impatiently steps out of the shop.

As soon as his shadow leaves the doorway, I go over to the table and, casting a glance back to make sure I'm not being watched, pull open the drawer. I feel around the underside of the tabletop for the game, in the hollow place above the drawer. One thing Papa taught me was how to build a hiding place into any piece of furniture. From the underside, you can't even see that this hollow exists. I pull the game down and tuck it into the waist of my pants, against my belly.

Exiting the shop, I hobble my way to the house. I'm going to have to give up one of my hiding places, but right now, it's better to give him that than the one in the shop.

"Give me the book, first," I say, and he snorts.

"How can I trust you with anything after all that, hm? No, I don't think so. Go get it."

I bite my lip. "Can I at least see it?"

He shakes his head, folding his arms over his chest, impassive, and there's nothing I can really do to force him to give it up. Under his watchful eye, I wedge myself into the gap behind the water-heater, then work the game out from under my shirt, where he can't quite see what I'm doing. There is a hiding place back here, but he won't be able to reach it, so at least it's still a relatively safe one, and is a plausible reason as to why I'd have to get it myself instead of telling him where to find it.

He grins his nasty smile, yanking it from my hand. "I knew it was somewhere in the bedroom. Had to keep your lover close, didn't you?" Opening the case, he pulls out the disc. Looking directly at me, he snaps it between his hands with one quick jerk, striking me straight through the heart. There it goes. No more will I see Zevran. No chance to start over, make the right choice. It's just... over.

"Okay," I say softly, trying not to cry. I swallow thickly. Tommy will not get the satisfaction of my tears. "Can I have my book now, please?"

He laughs. "You lost it on the beach last night when you ran out into the sleet like an idiot."

I pale. "You didn't get it?"

He shakes his head. "No... Why would I do that? You tried to kill yourself over it."

I bite my lip, wondering if I should keep pushing, but I can't help myself. "Can I go look for it?" He begins to look like the proverbial junk-yard dog about to bite, and I hasten on. "I promise I'll go back to the shop, without a fight. I'll do everything you say. I just want this one thing, just this one thing, and I won't ask for anything else, I promise," I babble.

He stares at me for a long time, while I hold my breath, but at last, he nods. "Fine. Let's go. You've got five minutes. If you can't find it, then that's just tough shit," he says, grabbing me by the shoulder and propelling me through the house, out the back door.

I just bolted, so I have no idea which direction I ran, but after a minute or so of casting about in the grass, I find a faint trail. Tommy has got fed up with telling me to come back and is headed straight for me by the time I find it. I snatch it up just as he grabs my arm, and tuck it into my shirt before he can see that I have it. "I told you it was pointless," he says, dragging me away. "Even if you could find it, it'd be totally destroyed by the rain by now." Actually, I found it in the lee of a rock. The cover's damaged, but the pages look okay. Mostly. We'll see. I keep my free arm pressed over my stomach - not so unusual, when I'm hurt, anyway - so hopefully he won't notice the bulge, if I hide it under the curve of my breasts.

Not bothering to take me back through the house, he simply circles around the side, to the shop, and shoves me in. I partially turn my back to him, hugging my belly, and look at him over my shoulder. "I'll bring you some dinner," he says, and then the door bangs shut. I can hear him locking three bolts on the outside, and I know with a sinking feeling that he's done it. He's imprisoned me.

Oh, gods.

I don't dare do anything, not yet, but I have to hide the book. As soon as the last bolt locks, I go over to my table and push the book into the hollow. I'm barely back on the bed, barely composed, by the time he comes back with a sandwich, a cup, and a bucket for me to use as a toilet. "I'll be back in the morning," he says, and leaves again.

The first thing I do is try to salvage the book. I take it apart, carefully picking out the stitching with my fingers, and lay out all the pages in chunks between my sheets and blankets.

During this tedious process, I have plenty of time to think about my situation? Why am I so protective of a book? A book that I wrote, about a fictional life, a fictional man, and the worst part is, he's not even my creation. Why am I so willing to sacrifice everything to keep it safe?

I can't stand the thought of Tommy getting his hands on it again. Seeing him holding it gave me such a turn of revulsion I wanted to vomit. There is something incredibly important about that book, something about Zevran that I will simply fight to the death to keep, and I don't know why.

Maybe I _am_ crazy.

I don't know how long it's been since I ate... before I went into the sea, actually, and now it's daylight, so... Easily twelve hours. I eat the sandwich and drink the milk, not really hungry, but I know I'm going to have to. I can't waste food, and he will be angry with me if I don't eat.

I pace a bit, but then I start to feel really tired. My legs turn to lead, and I lurch over to the cot, falling on it. Oh shit. He put something in the milk. Or possibly the sandwich. The table goes all blurry, and echo-ey, illusions of the table overlapping and shifting around itself. _Hera protect me..._

Oh gods... Oh gods... "Zev..." I whisper, feeling acute despair and sadness, and then I black out.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Something large and heavy is heating my side to a sweaty inferno, and I toss restlessly. The sheets whisper across my legs, and morning sunlight filters through the slats of the shutter. I sit up suddenly, dislodging Ponka, who grumbles, looking up at me.

I'm awake. _Am_ I awake?

Oh gods. Maybe I _am_ crazy.

Throwing my arms around Ponka's neck, I bury my face in his fur, and he wriggles around until he can put his head over my shoulder. "I'm not crazy. I'm not. It's just a nightmare." Ponka huffs and nuzzles the side of my face with his big, wet nose, reassuringly solid and real. Eventually regaining control of myself, I crawl out of bed. Zev's not here, of course, otherwise Ponka wouldn't have been asleep next to me. I take a few deep breaths, trying to settle myself.

I just need to... balance. "Come on, Ponka. Let's go find something to eat, and then maybe I can get someone to spar with." I firmly shove out of my mind any speculations as to why Zev isn't here. He would never leave me, and I don't feel weak, so he's fine. He's fine, and so am I.

Right.

There are still dozens of Wardens in the hall when I get downstairs. I try to beat feet, but it's too late - they've already seen me. Many men's voices say "Lily!" so I tighten my jaw and just give them a sweet smile. Ah, crap. Those few Wardens went and told the rest that I'd answer questions, that's what this is. Me and my big fat mouth.

Within moments, I find myself put at the head of the tables, a giant platter of everything sitting in front of me, and about thirty men - all looking expectantly at _me_. I swallow, smile, and grab a piece of sausage as Ponka settles himself under my feet. "Okay, boys, what's on your minds, hm?" I ask, with an ease I don't feel.

"Tell us about the Blight!" one of them calls, and I take a deep breath.

"Well, with the word 'Blight', you know, I was expecting a better party but somebody invited the darkspawn, and after that it was just _awkward_," I retort, and some of them laugh.

I take the opportunity to stuff several strawberries in my mouth, and the Warden next to me chuckles. I shoot him a glance, grinning around a mouthful. "Eat as you can, right?" I say, once I can talk, and he grins back.

Eventually the hall quiets a bit, and the man who has apparently been elected to speak for them says, "Tell us about the Brood Mother."

Ah, that mess with Branka. Crazy, sociopathic bitch. "Okay..." I say slowly, "Do you want to know the technicals about the creature itself, or do you want the story of how we found it?"

"Both!" many voices rise in chorus, and I laugh.

"Have you never heard the tale before?"

"Not from you!" one of them says, and another says, "The Commander makes it sound like nothing worse than a nest of snakes."

"Ahhh... And so you think it more likely you'll get the truth from me, hm?" I ask, to general agreement all around. Sighing, I go ahead and tell them the story, only leaving out the name of Branka and the fact that she was a paragon. Let her name be lost to the dusty tomes of the Shaperate. After the tale of our exploit, they grill me with a bunch of technical questions, and I tell them everything I remember. Eventually, the Wardens have to shove off to their work, leaving me alone in the hall with my dog.

I sit there in the relative quiet, trying to eat now that I don't have to talk, as two of the kitchen maids clear away all the detritus and chatter animatedly in Italian. Zev's got me trained a little now, and so I listen with half an ear, even though I'm not really paying them any mind. They talk of the Wardens: which ones are most handsome, which most eligible, which best in bed. I am rolling up a slice of cheese in a basil leaf when I hear them mention Alistair, getting my full attention.

I haven't seen him in a couple of days, come to think of it. I continue eating, continue being a non-person. One of them - Serena, apparently - is madly infatuated with him, and the other is primly of the opinion that Warden Enzo is far superior. Ahh, that one likes the rogue, too.

"_Besides,"_ Gina continues with a wave of her hand, "_The Commander has taken a vow of chastity."_

"_Lies. All lies,"_ Serena says breezily, flipping her hair. "_He's just a virgin."_

Gina snorts. "_No man of that age is a virgin. You're a gullible lamb. I bet you let him kiss you in the alcove,"_ she accuses, then laughs when Serena turns scarlet. Gina assumes that it's the flush of being caught out, but that's unrequited desire if I've ever seen it. I wonder if Alistair is even aware she's alive.

Serena flounces out, and Gina calls after her, "_He's due back today; go put on your perfume!"_ with a good-natured cackle.

He's been gone? Oh gods, how long? Does he... not know... Zev and I are... _Shit_.

He doesn't.

That shouldn't be a big deal, right? I mean, there's nothing between us, right? Right.

_Shit._

No, no, it's fine. Just breathe. We already had that conversation, right? No sense in borrowing trouble. It could all be totally cool, and he might just be like, hey, y'know, congrats.

I bury my face in my hands, not hungry anymore. That's about as likely to happen as me suddenly sprouting wings.

Magic. I need to see Anders. Maybe he can give me something to make me pass out. I'm tired of nightmares. What I really need is a Vicodin-style black-out sleep. I check the clinic, then wander around the place until I find him in the library, nose buried in a book. He looks up when I pause next to him. Ponka sits down facing the library door, his back to us.

"Ah, my favourite enigma," he says with a smirk, which fades as he looks at my face. "Hey, are you okay?"

I smile, a little tightly. "Ah, well. Zev's gone, and I can't sleep. Have you got anything that'll help?"

He studies me for a moment longer, then shakes his head. "Hmm. I don't want to give you anything too strong, then, since it's not a usual problem. It's not, right?" he asks, looking at me with narrowed eyes, but I shake my head. "Right. Well, in that case..." He digs around in his satchel, adding pouches and twists of paper to his hand until he's satisfied with the array. Turning to a low side-table, he crouches down and arranges his herbs.

I kneel down next to him, looking at them intently. "Tell me what you've got," I say, not meaning it as a command, but it sort of comes out that way, and he glances at me sidelong.

"Noooo, not used to being in charge, are you?" he asks wryly, and I suppress the urge to laugh. He has no idea. He speaks of each in turn, naming them and listing off their properties as he measures out dosages on a tiny portable scale that looks something like an astrolabe. I listen intently, and many of the herbs have analogues on Earth, so some of it is simply learning new names. But then there are other things that are entirely new, like elfroot.

"It's practically a panacea," I murmur, and he glances at me again.

"It is indeed," he replies. "It will repair anything. It may not restore, but it will repair."

"Hmm... I wish I were a healer, sometimes. I'd love to see how it all worked, on a cellu- Uh, you know, from the inside."

Finished with his measurements, he looks at me as he closes up his little pouches, weighing me carefully. "Cells, you said." I swallow and nod. "The tiniest motes of a being. It's a secret only seen by those who have the ability to heal. So how do _you_ know about it?"

"Uh. Well... We don't have magic, so we have to do everything the hard way. You have telescopes, right? Well, you can make them much stronger, magnifying the infinitesimal until it can be seen. Cells... those are the building blocks of biology. Where I come from, every child goes to school for twelve to fifteen years before they're turned out into the world. Some go on after that, if they're in specialised fields. Healers, at least eight, but often more. All the basics of everything, generally speaking, are taught during those first twelve years. Overview, if you will."

He looks at me steadily. "All that schooling, and still..."

I nod and sigh. "And still. There's no magic, and if we've got elfroot, we haven't discovered it yet." Having a thought, I add, "They, actually. _They_ haven't discovered it yet."

Anders nods, pulling a quill and ink out of his satchel. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Instead of just answering with an automatic 'yes', I stop and think a moment. I decide to make a conscious effort to be honest. "I'm really stressed, but that's not likely to change. I've... got a lot on my plate. Physically, though... I'm shocked at how different I've felt. Stronger. Strangely, it makes me feel _more_ fragile, as well." I shake my head, accepting the little packet of herbs from him, folded and neatly scripted with instructions.

"Lily, with all you've told me about this place you come from, it sounds very cold, very disconnected. When you talk to me about how you're doing, you focus on what's going on with your body, but you tell me next to nothing about your mind." Anders pops his, now corked, bottle of ink into a wooden box inside his satchel - I can hear the slide of the box-top as it closes - and then looks back up at me. "Comparing the matter-of-fact way that you talk about your physical health with the way you remain almost entirely silent about the rest of your life, I gather that it was expected of you."

My mouth opens, but I've got nothing to say. Nailed. He nods in acknowledgement. Standing up, he picks up the book that he was reading, absently running his finger over one of the design elements in the cover. "Part of your problem might be just that: you've been trained to see your mind, your soul, and your body as three separate entities."

I think about that for a moment. It's absolutely true: you see a doctor when you're sick, a priest when you're lost, and a shrink when you're feeling unstable. None of these people are qualified to offer advice on all three of the subjects. Looking back at Anders, I realize with a start that he is, and more besides. Healer, philosopher, and well-versed in religion, he's exactly everything that a real doctor is supposed to be. He offers me his hand, and I take it, standing up. There's that curious warmth again.

"You truly are a remarkable man," I say, meaning it, and his eyebrows go up in surprise.

He grins rakishly. "Ah, pretty girls. My constant downfall. Thank you." I giggle, blushing, because I didn't mean it like that, but I think he understood, because he goes serious on me in the next moment. "You know you can always talk to me. About anything. Even if you think I wouldn't understand it... and especially if you think I wouldn't care." I realize I'm still holding his hand, and look down. He squeezes my fingers and lets go. Not for the first time, I think what a fine mate Anders would be, and wonder if Lels is going to go for him. They'd make a good match.

I feel a depth of gratitude and affection that makes me think of him as a sort of brother. I have the impulse to hug him, but I just... don't like being that close to other people. Well, except for Zev. But I want to honour what he's offered me, so I give him words instead. "You're a good friend to me, Anders. You've done so much to keep Zev and me alive, to make us whole. I trust you completely." A tear springs to my eye with a sudden sting, but I refuse it release. "Where I come from, you don't air your problems. You deal with them. If you have to get other people to help you deal with your problems, then you're weak. And I'm not talking about actual situations like when you need more pairs of hands to accomplish a task. I mean, emotional, internal problems, relationship problems, stuff like that. I'm so used to not talking about these things that I have no vocabulary for some of it. It's terra incognita- I mean, territory uncharted." I bite my lip, trying to order my thoughts.

"I feel like I've been bound up inside myself for so long that I never even knew it, and now, being here, I'm losing some of those fetters. As I come undone, so do I lose my armour, and that is happening just as everything in my life gets exponentially more dangerous, every day. Pile on top of that all the changes that Zevran and I have gone through... Yes. I'm stressed, and of course I'm not sleeping well, but talking about it only makes me feel more unstable. If I keep looking forward, looking at the next step, I can't stray too far out of the lines, and then I'll still keep being able to put one foot in front of the other. Got no time for weakness," I say, and shrug, like I've got a pack on. Sometimes, it feels like I do.

"Hmm..." he mutters. "Well, then make sure you plan your weakness carefully, otherwise it will ambush you when you least expect it." He looks down at his book, then hands it to me and saunters off.

I look down at the cover. The Child of the Stars, it says, and I realize with a start that the constellation on the front is Cassiopeia. What is _that_ doing on a book in Antiva? I take it with me. I'm looking down at it, flipping through the pages and crossing the courtyard at the same time. Passing the fountain, I fail to negotiate the one paving brick that's popped up a little higher than the others, and trip, landing on my hands and knees. I curse, picking myself up and dusting off my breeches. I look around for my book, only to find it in the hands of a golden-haired man with Ferrilin's heart-shaped face and Zevran's eyes.

He hands it back to me with a small smile. "Oh, um, thank you," I say, rattled. Holy crap, what is _he_ doing here?

"Ah, Ferelden," he says, his accent so thick I can barely understand him, and he inclines his head in a sort of bow-thing. "You know the Warden Enzo?" At my nod, he continues, "I find him where, please?"

"Probably in the training yard," I say, pointing toward the sound of shouting and clashing metal. Is he Enzo's contact amongst the Crows? Zev will have a conniption if he finds out his kid is mixed up with them. Oh gods, what if he's in one of the cells we have to attack? Circles within circles within circles, overlapping and spreading out from us like ripples. Oh gods. _Ares, Ares, I never ask anything of you. Help us._ No. Don't think about it.

"Ah. A bad time," he says, and the way his forehead wrinkles as he checks the sky, the keen perception in his eyes, make him look so much like Zev that it hurts my heart. One day, undoubtedly no matter how much I try to prevent such a thing, we will end up with children. Just now I can glimpse the future in that, assuming we survive, and they will be beautiful. I want to cry in despair, because I want that so badly, and it is something I must guard against with all my being. "Come back, I will be."

I nod, unable to speak as he flashes me Zev's rakish grin, and I watch him saunter away, so much like his father that it must break his mother's heart, just as surely as it does mine. Oh, oh, why does everything just come at me non-stop? Clutching the book to my chest, I make my way back to our room and throw myself down on the bed to try to relax. Ponka flops down on the floor in front of the door and promptly goes to sleep, snoring. The book turns out to be an account - probably largely fictionalised - of the traveller who pioneered astronavigation, and after a time, I conclude that the star pattern on the front must be random. Or maybe the artist dreamed himself to Earth, saw the constellation, and it just stuck with him. With a mental shrug, I lay it aside. I really need to find someone to train with.

I haul my emotionally drained carcass out of the bed, feeling extremely tired. I hate nightmares. I head down to the practice yard to see if I can find someone to spar with... someone who might not beat the stuffing out of me. The yard is empty except for one person - a man methodically beating the shit out of one of the dummies - and I check out the practice swords, looking for a couple that are similar in size to my daggers, but heavier.

Lifting my head, I call out to the man in the practice yard, "Hey, want to spar?"

The Warden stops and flips up his visor. It's Alistair. I start, not having expected him, and feel myself blushing. "Lily." He takes off the helm and tucks it under his arm.

I shrug, awkwardly. "You're back," I venture. "I didn't know you left, but I noticed you were gone."

He shakes his head, coming closer to set his weapons against the racks behind me, and I lay mine aside as well. "It was sudden; I didn't have time to tell anyone. I just had to grab some men and go." He drops the helm on the top of one of the armour dummies.

I have to look up, as he stops in front of me, and I remember the night that he finally cornered me. I swallow. "So, uh..."

"Tell me it isn't true, Lily," he says, suddenly agonized, his voice low, and I blink.

"What?" Oh no.

"_What_? You ask me _what_?" Alistair huffs, exasperated. "Oh I don't know. Tell me it's not true that we ran out of cheese again. Tell me it's not true that it never rains in Antiva." He moves closer, looking down at me. "Or, here's a good one. Tell me it's not true that you threw away your second chance at life by marrying a _Crow_."

I feel my mouth drop open in surprise. "Uh... I... Uh... Yes? Yesterday." I swallow, nervous. "It wasn't exactly... planned."

He arches an eyebrow. "Not planned, huh? Slippery as eels, these assassins, right? Funny that he waited 'til I was away," he says, and I notice he's a little wild-eyed. "Made sure I didn't get a chance to talk to you first."

I blink, feeling my brow furrow. This again? This is going to poison our friendship. The rivalry has got to end. Maybe if I can get him to dump this out, he'll be able to get past it. "And if you _had_? What could you possibly have said to sway me?"

His hazel eyes soften, filling with sadness. "Lily, don't you see? There's no future in this. You came back from the dead, and now you'll be hunted all your life. You're a living miracle, a gift from the Maker. Don't throw it away." He moistens his lips, the plea coming out with an edge of desperation. "Please..."

I swallow, hard. This is not what I was expecting. Anger, recriminations, accusations, but this? No... not this. This is going to break my heart. "What... what would you have me do? It's done." There's a plea in my own voice, as I show him the ring I only just put on yesterday.

I've forgotten that the gesture is meaningless here, except to me. "He gave you a ring?" he asks, doubtfully, then glances up, catching the fact that my earring is there. "So? He's given you a gift before." He steps a little closer, his hand half lifting, and I can feel my heartbeat pick up. "You took a gift from me first. I... gave you my heart and you took it. You took it."

What can I _possibly_ say to that? I know I'm staring at him, I know the silence is stretching on too long. _Say something, say something!_ "I... I never meant to hurt you..." Ohhhh... _Good job, brain. You're fired._

"I never took it back, Lily. Please..." Slowly, tentatively, he reaches up to touch my cheek. "You'd be safe with me."

I pause, feeling my eyebrows draw together in confusion. "Safe? With all the Crows breathing down my neck?"

He shakes his head and shrugs. "Why would they, unless you're with Zevran? If you were with me, here with the Wardens, what interest would the Crows have in you? A second life, Lily. A second chance. Please... don't throw it away." His fingers whisper along my jaw as he takes another half-step forward.

I sigh, my voice going totally monotone. "I'm the 'Hero'. I slaughtered an entire cell, and you helped me do it. They know that. What choice do I have?" I can feel my face crumpling, and try not to show too much, but it doesn't escape my notice how close he's got, and my mouth suddenly goes dry, my voice deserting me. "It's... it's done," I whisper.

Alistair snorts. "They're pragmatists. They knew it was risky trying to take Zevran. By their own code any Crow not strong enough to live dies. But it's not that which will make them come after you, Lily. It's fear of what you _can_ do. They'll see the Hero, married to the renegade, and they'll come for you forever, because they have to. But if you were with me..." His hand moves from my cheek to my hair, locks slithering through his fingers, and I shiver. "If you were seen to be with me, then you're the Warden Commander's wife, no direct threat. They'd still expect you to protect Zevran. They'd expect both of us to do so, just as we always have."

I shake my head. He just... doesn't understand. "And what am I supposed to do? Even if I do what you wish, at best, Zev tries to kill you, and at worst, I just drop dead someday, randomly, because he's dead, and maybe for lack of me at his side. How is that better?"

He dips his head slightly, leaning forward so his lips brush my forehead. When I came here, I was not expecting to have this kind of issue. He was cute, and charming, and funny, but I never felt about him the way I do about Zev. But here, now, confronted with him, he has this personal magnetism about him, the thing that makes other people stand up and listen, that makes the other men here respect him, that would have served him frighteningly well as a king, and that way about him pulls hard on me, even though I know with absolute certainty where my heart lies. He's so close, and smells like cedar and rain, and all I can see is the breadth of his chest and the muscles in his shoulders as he pleads with me, his breath washing over my forehead. "Please, Lily. See sense..."

His fingers stroke along the edge of my jaw, stopping beneath my chin, tilting my head up, his mouth hovering closer and closer. I put my trembling hands to his chest, meaning to push him away, but I can't quite do that, because there is a very loud part of my mind clamouring that it's not necessary. I lean back, swallowing hard. That part of me wants to just give in, let him kiss me, but I can't do that to him, to us. It would be such a lie. "But- Alistair, he quite literally owns my soul." I reach up, touching his cheek, too. Gods, this is killing me, but it's _wrong_. "This happened before I ever reached Antiva... and you have to understand... I _gave_ it to him." I bite my lip, and I know I'm trembling.

He stills, a mere whisper away from, me, and I can feel his breath against my mouth. If I speak now, my lips will brush his, and I can't lean back any further. I hold my breath, trying to keep a tight grip on myself to hold absolutely still, because if either of us moves, we're going to be kissing, and I honestly don't know what will happen then.

"I-" He swallows convulsively, one hand trembling in my hair, the other slowly withdrawing from my chin. "I-" He nods jerkily, and I feel like utter crap. "I understand." He steps back, releasing me, his face full of pain, much the same as I feel, and I let out my breath in a slow shudder. "I do." My brow furrows, and I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, trying to regain some of my balance. "I just hoped-" He shades his eyes a moment, perhaps surreptitiously wiping them. "I hoped this time-" Some of the emotion drains out of his face as the barriers come down, and that clutches at my heart. "You deserve a good life, Lily. I wanted you to have it. I wanted _us_ to have what we could."

I take a few breaths, my heart fit to fly right out of my chest, and press my shaking hands to my thighs. I'm so weak. "Okay, so... okay," I say, my voice quavering a bit, and make a concerted effort to strengthen it. "Don't... don't think these things haven't crossed my mind. It's just... Look, I laid everything at your feet once..." I swallow. I hate talking about what had to happen to bring me here. "...before."

He shakes his head in negation. "No, Lily, no, you didn't. You gave it all to him." The barriers in his face come down further, shutting me out, protecting himself. From me. _Aphrodite, help me!_ "Look, I can't- There's no point- I see that now." He holds up his hands as if to fend me off. "I don't want to talk about this any more." His whole posture is set for flight.

"Yes I did!" I snap at him, indignant. I gave everything to Zev the first time around? Really? Could he really be so blind? He's not the only one hurt and upset here, but I didn't run when he wanted to go down this road. "But fine! Run! It's easier than dealing with it, isn't it! Easier to think I never loved you!" The silence rings for a moment, while I kick myself for what just fell out of my mouth. It's true. Oh gods, it's true, but I didn't mean to say that.

He stops, poised on the ball of one foot, and slowly turns back to me. "You- What did you say?"

My heart leaps into my throat and I swallow. _Hermes, help me!_ "You think this is easy for me? That I wanted this?" I demand, quivering with warring emotions. "It's tearing me in half!" I admit, and then cover my face with both hands, trying so hard, so hard not to cry. This is awful. I've never cried in front of him. Not now, not then. I'm not about to start now.

"Lily, I-" I can hear the defeat in his voice, and it makes me feel so much worse. "Oh, blast it, Lily, don't cry, please."

I take several deep breaths, trying to control myself. "I'm not," I say, choking on it. It's not a lie. Not yet. If I can just get a grip, everything will be fine.

He chuckles, with a wavering edge of his own. "Of course. Wouldn't do for the Hero to leak in public, would it?" He huffs out a sigh and takes my hand, gently pulling it away from my face and tugging me forward into his arms again.

I could've held it in if he hadn't touched me, but being so close to him, the emotions just well in me, and I lose the fight, bursting into silent, shameful tears all over his chest while he strokes my hair, his chin resting lightly on top of my head. I sniffle, pulling myself together, feeling like a child. I never meant to expose this weakness to him. "I'm sorry. It's not fair. I know it's not fair. You deserve better."

Alistair sighs, and I can feel the resignation in his body. "No, Lily _you_ deserve better. Better than either of us. I stood aside for him once, but to have to do it again- It's just... this time I really thought I could offer you what I never could. I leant on you so many times..." I shiver as I feel his lips press to the top of my head. "For once, I want you to be able to lean on me."

I sigh. How much do I struggle with this very thing, even with Zev? "I'm not very good at leaning on _anyone_, but I do trust you, Alistair... completely. Utterly. I _want_ to do the safe thing, the easy thing, and believe me, I _know_ how easy it would be. Don't think I haven't thought about it. But in the end I could never forgive myself for being a coward. Nothing that happens now can end any other way than bloodshed, no matter which way I jump."

His arms tighten around me, and I can feel him tensing. "It always ends in blood, right? Always did. But Lily, you shouldn't make a sacrifice of yourself. The gods... The Maker or your Creators, whoever... they didn't step in and save you so you could throw it away." He hesitates, but then continues. "You might have noticed that I haven't asked you to retake your Joining. I mean... your oath still holds you, kind of, but Lily I don't know what the Maker intends for you. Not necessarily to be a Warden again, right? Coming back from the dead... it's not exactly an everyday occurrence."

I wince. The Joining. Oh gods. I don't want that. Noooo, not that. Not more magic. What would that do, considering the link I've got with Zev? I shudder to think. "I don't know if I'd survive it the second time."

His shoulders lift slightly in a shrug. "None of us know whether we'll survive it the first time."

I laugh mirthlessly. "True enough. But last time, it was only my life on the line. If I die now, I take Zev with me." I look up at him, now that I'm sure I can keep a grip on myself. "I can't change what's already happened, but you can't tell me I didn't give you anything. I _died_ for you. Not for the Blight, not to save Denerim, not for the dwarves, Ferelden, the Grey Wardens, or even my clan. Just you. Everything I held, all that I desired, everything I was, all my Tainted blood and every scrap of my Dalish soul. I gave it up for you. Not him."

I feel his hands flex against me and his brows snap down in sudden anger. "Oh right, of course you did. Silly me, how could I not see that. You ran past me and stuck a sword in the archdemon in order to ensure that I had the chance to fulfil my long-held desire to be in command. Do you have any idea how many times I've envied you? How many times, while I bumbled around trying not to look like the idiot I am, that I wished I'd died there instead?"

I shake my head and sigh. "No. I said that, but it was only half the truth... Because I had to know that you would live. Because I couldn't bear the thought of the world without you in it. It was the last thing I could offer you... The only thing I had left."

Alistair grinds his teeth in frustration. "Maker, Lily, why is it only you who gets to make the big gestures, huh? You don't think that _I_ might have felt the same about you? _I'm_ the one who should have died up there. I would have died content, knowing that the Wardens were in safe hands and that Duncan could be proud of me." He stops, pushing back an obstruction in his throat. "Instead of which you left us. Zev was like a dead man waIking and I was left to make such a bad job of Warden Commander that I was packed off here."

I shake my head again, resting my forehead against his breastbone in defeat. What am I supposed to say to that? It's the way the game ran. I didn't have much choice in the matter. "Reverse our places, and you'd be taking the words out of my mouth. I did think that. I did die content with the idea that I'd made it safe enough for you to exist in peace, even if I couldn't be there to see it. But I didn't last three days, after that; my heart couldn't take it, any more than yours could. I never told you how I got here... I stood on the shore of my own land, a storm raging all around me, and got swallowed by the ocean. I drowned. I was no more happy than you, in the end, and now I'm here, making a giant mess of everything."

"He-ey!" He slips his arms further around me, smiling for the first time. "That's my job!" I give him a watery laugh, hugging him back, and he holds me tightly. "I'll always be here for you... you know that, right?" He kisses the top of my head again, making me blush. I wish I could be what he wants me to. I wish I _could_ tear myself in half, so the part of me that really wants to stay here with him could, while the rest of me, the most of me, goes on with Zev. "My shield will always cover you. I-" He swallows, clearly trying to steady himself. "I knew I wasn't good enough for you... but neither is Zevran. He's always been a lucky bleeder though, always lands on his feet."

I can't quite turn my head up enough to see his face, he's got me so crushed, so I don't know what he's thinking, not really, but I think I can guess. "No. No, that's where you've got it all wrong. I do love you. I looked- _look_ up to you, more than you'll ever know, maybe. I've never known what to say, how to be, what to do... You make it hard to think straight, you know that? The problem is, both of you have a hold on me, and I know I can't have it both ways. I never could." A few more damned tears leap out of my eyes before I can stop them.

His big hand rubs up and down my back, and when he speaks, his voice carries a note of helplessness. "Don't cry, Lily. I can't bear it if you cry."

This would be so much easier if my body found him simply repulsive, like it does with just about every other man in the free world, despite whatever opinion my eyes and mind might have. I could have made things work with Alistair. It could have been good, I know that. He knows that. What he doesn't understand is that he could never set me on fire like Zev does. I could never fall into his arms and feel the depth of serenity I feel with Zev. With Alistair, I would love and be loved, and that would be enough, but that would be all. With Zev, my soul has found its haven, its home.

I shake my head. "'Mnot," I say, totally lying, convincing no one. I make a concerted effort to control myself, but my voice is still thin. "I'm sorry. I wish I could give you what you want, what you deserve."

"Yes, well..." He begins to disengage himself, with a shade of reluctance. "If wishes were gryphons, we'd have flown down and bombarded the archdemon with rotten eggs. Or something like that." He pulls back and rubs a hand over his face before I can properly see him, and I step to the side, covering my own face, not wanting him to see the tear-tracks on my cheeks.

"Right..." I whisper. "I told you we would bleed."

In the process of picking his helm back up, he stills for just a second before continuing. When he speaks again, his tone is light. "So, you wanted to spar?"

"Mh. Yeah." I choke on it, because I already feel like I've been punched in the stomach several times, and I want to say no, and I want to run and sulk and nurse my bruised heart, but I've got to get to work. I have no choice. Zev's not here, and I really need to keep up on what I know, so I don't lose it. It's like dancing; the footwork is killing me. Going up against Alistair will be good practice, though, because he uses such different tactics from Zev. We both put on the practice padding and helms that will keep us from knocking the crap out of each other, and face off, he with sword and shield, me with the daggers I chose earlier.

"What do you need?" he asks me, crouching into a battle-stance that is so familiar it _hurts_, and I wince, glad he can't see it behind the visor over my face. I don't think he means it to be as flat and impersonal as it ends up sounding, just like it did when we first met, so long ago. Or maybe he does. Hard to tell. Alistair disapproves, minus everything. I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

"Dunno. Just... keep going until I fall over without help. Maybe then I can sleep."

The laugh that comes from his visor takes me by surprise. Okay, maybe not everything. "I've heard that before."

Alistair presses me hard, testing me to the limit. "Quit dropping your shoulder!" he says, and, "Circle, circle!" and, "You've left your flank open again!" Fighting Alistair actually helps a lot more than fighting Zev, in some ways, because he's got such different tactics, it allows me to use what I've learned without having to worry about whether I'm doing it right, because 'right' is whatever gets results. Right? Right.

After half an hour or so, Enzo appears in the corner of the yard. Distracted, I don't see Alistair until it's too late; he sends me sprawling with a body-check from his shield, and I land heavily on my back in the dust. "Oof!" I gasp, looking up into the brilliantly blue Antivan sky. Two Warden faces appear over me, blocking out the light, one worried, one amused.

I take Alistair's hand, letting him help me up. "Maker, I'm sorry," he says, and I laugh.

"If we'd been actually fighting, I'd be dead. Teach me to get distracted, right?" Shaking my head, I smile at him wryly. "Thanks."

Enzo clears his throat, looking up at Alistair deferentially, and he nods, stepping back to take off the padding of the practice armour and put up the weapons. Leaning in close, Enzo says, "I have a message for you." I look at him, startled, and he nods. "The message is, 'Go get some biscotti'."

I blink. "Uh... Alone?"

He nods gravely, and then steps back with a little half-bow. "I have, however, arranged for you to have a guide," he murmurs, "If you will come with me?"

I look down at my tunic and breeches, then back up at him. "Should I change?"

He purses his lips, considering, as Alistair comes up beside me again. "You're leaving?"

"Yes. It's just a matter of how," I respond to him quickly, my eyes still on Enzo.

"I hesitate to tell you no, however, it is not usual for a woman of Antiva to walk around so attired," Enzo tells me with an apologetic shrug, spreading his hands as though to say, 'What can I do? It is what is expected.' I sigh internally. "It would be my suggestion that you wear a dress, and hide as many weapons under it as you can. A woman in workman's clothes gains different attention than a beautiful woman in a dress. You will be better able to move unnoticed."

I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Right. Okay. Right. Uh... Tell my guide to meet me in the courtyard in... ten minutes or so, please."

"Wait, you're not actually going to go out there _alone_, are you?" Alistair demands, and I cast a glance at him, seeing Enzo's face go opaque at the same time. Enzo backs away, and I round on my brother.

"I am. I have to. The question is, will you help or hinder?" He hesitates, and I don't have time to fuck around. Zev says I need to go back to the cafe, so that is where I will go. With a last glance at Alistair, I turn and dash from the training yard before he has time to decide what he wants to do.

I'm clothed and tucking my dress into its proper pleats as I walk, headed down to the courtyard, when he catches up with me again. He presses a small satchel into my hands, his mouth hard. "Here. If you can't take anyone with you, take this." I flip up the flap of leather that sort of covers it to hold it closed, and take a peek. Potions and poultices.

"Gods, thanks Alistair," I breathe, supremely grateful. Looking back up at him, I see those worry lines carved deeply. "Listen, if I don't come back, I'm going to the Strada Rosa." He suddenly crushes me into a tight hug, and then lets me go before I can complain. Moving more quickly than I would've given him credit for, he ducks around a corner in the next moment, and is gone.

Dashing back down to the courtyard, I find my guide, as he turns around at the sound of my footsteps, and stop dead.

Zev's son, again.

There's no doubt about it; he's the Crow contact for Enzo, maybe even the go-between for Ignacio. _Hera protect us._


	18. Mapless

The city is busy this time of day, all crushed together during the lunch hour, and I have to really leg it to keep up with the kid in front of me. Gods, I think of him as a kid. He's probably not much younger than me. He's definitely an adult. Not for the first time, I wonder how much of an age gap there really is between me and Zev, and decide I probably don't want to know. The idea that he's old enough to be my father scares the shit out of me, even though he's an elf and that was entirely possible from the start. I'll just deal with that little issue the same way I deal with the rest of them - stuff it in the box and ignore it.

I recognize the Strada Rosa by the pavers, as we come upon it, but the section we're in is unfamiliar to me, being much higher on the street than I've previously travelled. The kid - man, really - turns and heads down it without pause, causing me to hasten after him. He keeps on walking right past the cafe, where I stop, and continues off down the street, not looking back, just as he has the entire time since we left the Warden base. After a moment, I duck into the shop. Going up to the counter, I order myself a coffee and a biscotti, in English, and then take the spot by the window that Zev and I occupied before, tense.

That same pair of old women sit over their cards and dice, at the same table, but all the rest of the patrons have changed. I look across the street at Ferrilin's shop, thinking of my tattoo. A woman sits next to me, baby on her lap, and I pay her no mind as she casually pops out a breast and feeds it, right here in public. No one else pays her any heed, either, except for people who smile at them, at the sweetness of the baby's cooing and kicking feet, which is a refreshing change from home, that's for sure. The mother looks tired, hair escaping the bun she's hastily tied on the back of her head, and I can see sweat trailing down her neck.

"Do you speak Common?" I ask her quietly, and she looks over at me.

"_Sì_, small," she says, tilting her head curiously, and I point to her hair.

"It's falling," I tell her, because I know she's got her hands full, and I want to help. "Can I fix it for you?" I don't know what makes me offer, except that I think I'd want someone to offer it for me, if I were in her position. Anyway, she smiles brilliantly, nodding, and turns her back to me, so I reach up and pull the thongs from her hair. It tumbles down her back in an auburn wave, and I run my fingers through it quickly, twisting it up and securing it tightly once more. I miss my hair. That's what it is, really. I miss being able to tie it up like that.

She turns around again, smiling. "_Grazie_," she says, grateful, and I smile warmly at her, nodding. The baby finishes its lunch at about the same time his mother does, and she rises to leave. A paper flutters out of her satchel as she stands. I pick it up, meaning to hail her, but when I glance down at it, the hand is familiar, and I pause. Gods, my man knows me better than I thought. Distract me with a baby and a pretty red-head whose hair has come undone? Check. Sighing, I smile and sit back, try to comprehend what he's telling me, deciphering the Italian as well as I can. I just count myself fortunate that I know Spanish and the Latin roots of English well enough that I can understand more of this than I would've been able to if it were spoken. It helps that I picked up a smattering of Italian while I was trying to write him, what seems like a lifetime ago, now. Then again, I've always been better at the written word.

_My eternal beloved,_

The shipment of wine we expected did not arrive on time. I have gone to discover what has delayed the caravan, but I fear I will not be home in time for the party tomorrow evening. You must take Berwick's invitation without me. I have heard that the lady of the house has a penchant both for leather and books. Perhaps you could arrange a gift for her, from both of us. Take a servant with _you, if you can; I dislike you travelling the streets alone at night without me. In the interim, I have discovered a thief amongst us, and ended his employment. The kitchen maids are heartbroken, but I believe our household will be stronger for it. It is my hope that you will find time to visit our garden before you go to the party; think of me when you stand in the grotto, and I will remember you as you were, at sunset, the light shining in your hair._

Your sunlight underground

Fuck. I have no idea what some of this means. Clearly, there's a problem. Zev said 'wine' means 'blood', so... something didn't go according to plan, and he's gone to try and right things, whatever that means. Berwick... That's what I called him at the docks. Crap, what was that nobleman's name? He invited me up to his estate. Okay, so I'm to go there... and there's a party. I'll need to find out when. Or maybe 'party' is a metaphor for a group of people, or an event of some kind... or maybe it's their gathering. Oh, shit, maybe that- Oh, that's what it is. That man who greeted me at the docks was a Crow. I'm to go in from the front, provide a distraction. Okay. Leather and books... that is probably straightforward. Come with a gift. But then again, if it's to be from both of us, then maybe it's supposed to be something deadly.

'Take a servant', he says... Probably, that means I should have backup in the guise of a footman or something. The thief and the kitchen maids I can't make heads nor tails of, but the bit about standing in the grotto, well, that's obvious. So, tomorrow night, I stand in the little cave at sunset, probably meeting up with him - oh gods, please... No, wait, he wouldn't have said to go on to the party without him in the letter, in that case - and then head to the estate of that one lord whose name I've entirely forgotten. Shit. It was something that sounded Elvish... I sit and think for a very long time, racking my brain. That was not a good day for me; I don't remember much about our landing. I sip my coffee, thinking furiously, and then it hits me: Lothrein, that's it - I only remember it because of Tolkein's Lothlorien, where Galadriel lived. Hah. I _knew_ it was something vaguely Elvish.

So now I'm at loose ends for an entire day. Great. Plenty of time to pace and worry about Zev. I've become spoiled by his constant presence in the last several months; being without him is painful in a way I never expected. Half the time, it's all I can think about. I dread the prospect of another night without him. I finish my coffee and fold up the letter, tucking it into my satchel. Setting off down the street again, I try to retrace our steps and find my way home by the way Zev and I have gone before, but I miss a turn somewhere and get hopelessly turned around in a maze of cesspit-smelling side-streets. Pausing at a corner, I try to regain my bearings.

_Amateur! Zev, I'm so sorry. I was too distracted by you to actually pay attention to where the fuck we were going, and now we might be in danger because of it. _

Right. 'Cause that'll be a fun conversation. Dammit.

_Ah, Loki, I know we rarely talk, but I also know you have your fingers in everything. Tell Sofia she was right; I am the Duchess of Disaster. Fish me out of this, and I swear, I'll- I'll dedicate my next round of sex to you, how about that?_

Okay. When I was homeless in Seattle, the easiest way to find someplace familiar was to just go downhill until I hit water, then work my way back into the city from there. Operating on that logic, I set off again, footsore and weary, searching for another street that is important enough to be paved. After the stories, and the conversation with Alistair, and chasing after Zevran's kid, and now wandering around the city, I've just had too much. I'm tired as hell. The bad news is that I can't find my way to the park from the cafe, so how am I going to be there at sunset tomorrow? Puzzles within puzzles within puzzles. I'll have to take a Warden with me, obviously, but which one?

Alistair will want to be the one, but I can't have that; his face is too well-known. Enzo is a former Crow, so, ditto. Leliana is a possibility... But then again, she's a Blight Companion. Damn. Might be able to take Ponka with me, but that won't help if I need someone with thumbs. Hmmm... I'd be inclined to ask Anders, except for his big hurkin' staff that would be a dead give-away. Shit. I might be fucked completely for an escort, and I'm certainly not taking a Warden I don't even know with me. Besides, I can't involve them directly, not like that. The Wardens still need to be able to coexist with the Crows long after we're gone, so we can't start a guild war.

So where does that leave me? Well, first of all, triumphantly headed toward the docks, which I can smell as I come up over the top of the next rise. I knew it. Port towns? Head downhill. I'm actually in a much seedier part of town than I would like to be. This fact is driven home to me when I reach the next corner, and realize that the man down on the other end of the block has been shadowing me, because I recognize that same pair of striped pants. Shit.

Glancing away nonchalantly, I look ahead to the next block of buildings and cross the street. He has no way of knowing that I've noticed him, since I haven't given any sign; I just looked both ways and crossed the street. Let's see... From here, I could probably climb up the side of this building, but I'd be so obvious it's painful, and I'd have to hitch my skirts up to my waist, which would only make me more conspicuous. So, no help there. This is all residential, no shops, so nowhere to run. Ooh, he's got me cornered in his little warren, doesn't he? And where there's one shadow, there's two, that's what Rooster always used to say. Nobody ever works alone, even when they tell you they do.

Footpads. I don't look like a noble, but I don't look like a peasant, either. I look well enough to not raise eyebrows in the neighbourhoods I had been in, but here? No way. I'm far from the areas girls like me should be in. So the question is, where's the partner, and when're they gonna jump me? I wish I'd worn boots. Oh, gods, please let there only be two of them. They'll be boxing me in, so I can't turn and dash back the other way because I'll be caught by whomever is working with striped-pants guy. The only thing I can do is change direction, but moving away from the waterfront puts me further into their territory. The only thing I can do, I determine, as I reach the next corner, is to pick my battleground. So I cross the street again, and there's striped-pants guy, right on cue, crossing at the next corner down.

On this block, there is a porch, with steps, and a recessed doorway. Not much cover, but maybe enough that I can at least get a look at who is after me. I need something I can put my back to, and a way to force them into tight quarters, where I'll be more likely to do a lot more damage. I turn and go up the stairs like I own the place, and duck into the alcove. There is actually more space here than I expected, as the recess goes horizontally into the walls as well, leaving room for a bench on either side of the door that is secluded from view of the street. Perfect.

I stand on one of the benches, tying my satchel more tightly to me, and pull out one of my knives. They're not my daggers, it's true, but they're sharp, and I'm staking my life on these guys not being apostates.

_ogods ogods ogods_

I take deep breaths, trying to steady myself, as I hear footsteps coming along the street. They pause, near the steps, as another pair come from the opposite direction, and then a third pair. Fuck. Three. Breathe.

They all speak Italian, so I only catch part of what they say.

"_Where has she gone?"_ one guy asks.

"_She can not have gone far,"_ a second man says.

"_If we have to look for her, it will vada molto peggiore for us,"_ the third one says; I'm pretty sure he's worried about how long it might take and what I might be doing in the mean time.

"_She doesn't live here, she non può avere oltre noi. She is here, in qualche luogo."_ That's the second guy again.

I take a shaking breath, shifting my grip on my knife, tucking it up against my forearm. I can do this. The adrenaline rush is killing me; I'm trembling on the waiting point, like the moment when the ratcheting ends, and you're sitting at the top of the first big dip on a roller coaster.

At the sound of cautious footsteps on the stairs, I ready myself to spring. _Zev, I love you; I'm sorry I don't remember the city better._

It's just my stupid luck that the man happens to look into the other alcove first. Reaching out, quick as a striking snake, I grab him by the hair and drag him toward me, pressing the point of my dagger to his jugular. "_Show me your hands,"_ I hiss in his ear, my heart in my throat, and he holds them up, palms out. The man swallows, and so do I. Okay. I can do this. He's no taller than me, so that makes this a little easier. Getting down off the bench, I frog-march him to the top of the steps and stick him out in front of me, a meat-shield.

I know the instant the other two see him by their exclamations. "_Call off your dogs, or I'll cut your throat. I'll bathe in the blood of your brothers, and I will laugh while your children and your mothers weep."_ Okay, so a lot of what Zev taught me was threats. It works, though, I can see the man's hands begin to shake, but he hesitates. "_Is three lives worth a few coppers? Or maybe you were after something else, hm? Should I take your_ dagger _from you?"_ I demand, yanking his head back a little further. "_What is it to be? I haven't killed anyone in a few days."_ I dig the knife into his skin just enough to make a mark, and he squeals like a girl.

"_Back off!"_ he says to his friends, waving his hands frantically, and I can see them moving away from the stairs. Okay. I've got a meat shield, but that only works so long as I have him. He might be intimidated, but the other two, not so much. If I try to incapacitate him, the others'll be on me before I can spit, but if I let this guy go, I'll still have three of them on my ass. _ogods ogods ogods_ Not for the first time, I wish I knew how to throw a knife. I will have to rectify this as soon as possible, because right now it would serve me in very good stead.

"_So. How much do your friends love you, hm? Would they try to help you if I stuck my knife in your belly?"_ While he thinks about that, I make him go forward a bit more, pressing his hips to the railing, the stairs stretching down the wall to my left. It occurs to me that if I shove him forward and make him tip over the rail, he'll land on his head on the cobbles. That's a good plan. I like this plan. Swiftly, before he has time to react, I pull back the knife, dip my shoulder, and body-check him right in the middle of the back. He's not prepared. He goes over. _Thank you Ares!_

The other two shout as he lands heavily with a nasty crunch that heralds a broken bone of some kind. He howls, but I'm already down the stairs and hot-footing it down the street at break-neck pace. A few moments later, I realize I've still got one on my ass. _Leg it, bitch!_

I dash down the street and abruptly cut left down an alley, thinking if I can just zig-zag through the city far enough, I'll come out somewhere with people, or find a stack of something I can knock over. Or until I run out of breath and fall over, or he manages to catch me. Right. Let's think positive.

Careening around a corner, I have very little time to react as I suddenly find myself amongst a throng of people again, out on a main street. This isn't going to be enough to save me, no, not in this snakes' den. I need to blend in, and quickly. Lengthening my stride, I slouch down a bit, beginning to duck and weave my way through the traffic, just like I used to do at street fairs. Reaching down, I loosen the strings on my purse and grab a few silvers. As I pass a stall selling brightly coloured scarves, I trade the silvers for one in gold and coppery brown, leaving them on the table and strolling off without breaking stride. I duck below the level of the crowd, quickly wrapping it over my head, and then stand up again in front of a group of people, hoping I can blend in, now that I look entirely different from the shoulders up.

I don't know where I am anymore, but I'm heading uphill, which can't be good. I turn at the next major street, trying to find my way to a place where heading back down seems like a good idea, and come to a small plaza with a public fountain in the centre. The crowds have thinned, nowhere to hide amongst the people, so I slow a bit, walking along at a normal pace and trying to pretend like I belong here. Now, here, when I've been forced to slow, is the place where I finally look over my shoulder.

Nobody there.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I look down the next couple of streets, passing up the dirt roads until I find a paved one that slopes. I turn, heading downwards once more. I've just passed a small side-street tavern when something hurtling out of the alley to my left slams me against the wall.

I should've known better.

Struggling to catch my breath, I find the point of a knife pressed to the corner of my jaw, and the footpad's garlic-and-onion, rotted-teeth breath in my face. My lip curls as he snarls at me, but I can't do jack with that knife against my skin. I shift, trying to drop the dagger up my left sleeve into my hand, but he turns the knife, point digging into my flesh with a sharp sting. "_Do not give me una ragione,"_ he hisses. "_You have already guadagnato death, do not make it faccia male più than it must be."_

_Struggling prey is interesting prey_, Zev whispers in my memory, one of the many lessons on escaping holds during those long weeks at sea. I go limp with a sigh, and the man blinks, just once, but I see his surprise, quickly followed by gloating, lust, and then determination. Oh, great. Just what I need.

_Even in Antiva, if they know you are not a Crow, they will underestimate you because you are a woman. They will expect you to put up a fight, but also that you will be ultimately weaker, and easily intimidated. _

I give him wide eyes. "_What do you want from me?"_

The grin of avarice tells me far more than I really want to know, and he relaxes his grip somewhat, now that he feels assured of my cooperation. Gods, my man is smart. "_Come with me,"_ he growls, turning me by the shoulder and steering me toward the alley.

_ogods ogods ogods_

The tavern door opens as we are turning, and a group of soldiers come out, laughing and elbowing each other. At the last possible second, they are finally out the door far enough to see us, and I stumble, desperately and on purpose, as I see the footpad's attention momentarily distracted, hopefully calling attention to us. I am past the corner and into the foul-smelling alley when I hear one of the guards say, "_Wait, that man had a knife."_

Thank you, Loki!

"Shit! Move, move," my captor commands, shoving me forward roughly and steering me into a narrow passage between buildings. Stupid sandals; I don't have to fake my sudden yelp as his shoving causes me to smash my toes on a three-inch lip of step. He marches me down the gap, and I hear the soldiers in the alley behind, quickly closing. "_Run!"_ he commands, but I barked my toes pretty good and am bleeding. I limp along as fast as I can, but it's not nearly as fast as the guards, and I'm not exactly inclined to care, anyway.

As the clatter of their armour closes in behind us, the man turns, spinning me around so that he's standing behind me, intending to hold the dagger to my throat.

_The easiest way to keep someone from sinking a length of steel into you is to simply not be where they put their blade._

He wants me to turn and stumble, to be still upright when he gets me in front of him. He's not expecting me to take that momentum and dive head-first into his knees. He lands flat on his back with a surprised and pained cry, and a moment later, before I can even pick myself up off the bricks, we are surrounded by a ring of steel. I breathe a sigh of relief as one of the guards holds out a hand to help me rise, which I do with as much dignity as I can muster. Once the guard sees my face, his eyebrows crawl up nearly to his hairline. "You?"

I blink, then look around at the other men, and realize that I recognize some of their faces. They're Wardens. I laugh, clapping him on the shoulder. "I have never been so glad to see a band of my brothers in my life. This one caught me without boots on," I say, nudging the footpad with my unhurt foot. "There were three of them, but this guy was... persistent."

"_You dog,"_ one of the Wardens spits at the man on the ground... Angelo, come to think of it; I actually know his name.

"_I have a permesso, I have a permesso,"_ the man on the ground gibbers, reaching for the inside of his vest, only to be frozen by the tip of Angelo's sword resting lightly on his shoulder.

"_For attacking a Warden? I doubt that,"_ Angelo says conversationally, and gives the man a friendly grin that does absolutely nothing to warm the hardness in his eyes.

The man's eyes go wide as saucers, and he looks at me. Shit. He knows I speak Italian, and the other Wardens don't. "_A woman? She is a Warden? The Wardens take women? But she has no armour, no badge - un errore onesto!"_

Angelo snorts. "_The Wardens take everyone, è semplicemente che solamente i migliori sopravvivono, just like the Crows. If she was running from you, it is because she wanted you to live."_

I watch the man's face as that sinks in, and he goes pale, staring up at me; I fold my arms over my chest, squaring myself some and centring my balance. "Well, what do we do with him?" I ask, glancing around at the others.

"Technically, we could hand him over to the Crows," one of them says, to general agreement, and I see the man's eyes flick around the circle, trying to suss what we're saying. Ahhh... good. He doesn't speak English.

"Hmm... and _not_ technically?"

Angelo shrugs. "He was caught accosting a Warden," he says, and then his face darkens to a frightening degree. "And _you_, of _all_ people," he growls, startling me. "We are perfectly within our rights to kill him."

I feel my eyebrows draw together and my lips thin out. "I dislike the idea of executing a man who is laying helpless on the ground, and I'm not prone to needless cruelty." I sigh, looking down at him, trying to decide what to do. On the one hand, he is, indeed, helpless and outnumbered. On the other, he had me at knife-point, probably minutes away from rape and murder, and if we set him free, it'll only be to do it again to someone else. "What happens if we give him to the Crows?"

One of the others snorts. "What do you think?"

I glance over at Angelo and arch an eyebrow. "Is he one of them?"

Angelo nudges the guy with his boot, gently enough that he _probably_ didn't break anything. "_Hey. Are you a Crow?"_

The man shakes his head emphatically, eyes wide. "_No, just un uomo di gilda."_

Angelo shakes his head in negation, answering my question, nonchalantly stepping on the man's shoulder as he tries to go for a weapon, shoving his face into the bricks. He grinds the heel of his boot into the man's neck, making him grunt, as the other Warden continues on. "We hand him over, he will probably lose a hand, which would then be presented to you with great ceremony back at the base, and if he is unwise, you will also make an enemy, or perhaps the rest of his family will come after you, any number of things. The least likely outcome is that he will leave you alone, though the Crows will tell you that is what will happen. If we kill him here, now, and mark him, there will be nothing more. It all depends on whether you wish to humiliate him or remove him from your list of problems." His tone is so dispassionate, and I look up at him, meeting eyes entirely flat. Casual execution. Can I do it?

I look around at the other Wardens, meeting their eyes. "Is this really the way of it, in Antiva? I'm staking my life on your answers, here. Is it truly wiser to kill him now and be done with it?" There are general nods, all around, and I sigh. If that is the case, then this man knows it. "How do you 'mark' a kill?"

The knowledgeable Warden shrugs. "Slit both wrists and cross them over his chest, and a piece of deathroot in his mouth."

"Is this common knowledge?"

"No."

I rub my lower lip, looking at the man, then look back up at Angelo. "Lend me your dagger?" Gravely, he nods, and hands me a fine weapon, pommel first. The man on the ground's eyes widen when I come into his line of sight, tapping the flat of it against my thigh. "Angelo, will you translate for me?" At his nod, I say, "Ask him if he knows what's going to happen next."

"_Do you know what she will do now, dog?"_ Angelo asks, leaning down, and the man nods, too quickly, his breath picking up speed. He lets out an entirely undignified whimper.

"_I have a wife-"_ the man begins, but Angelo hisses at him and increases the pressure until he stops trying to talk.

"I'll take that as a yes. Make him get up on his knees, and tell him to say his prayers." I can feel my heart hammering in my ribcage. Mercy could be weakness or strength. It could win me points or lose them. It could earn me enemies either way. The other two still live. If he's found dead, it'll be worse. Shit. Angelo drags the man upright, translating my instruction, and the man closes his eyes. Holding his hand out in the gesture of the rays of the Maker, he begins whispering fervently, clutching a talisman around his neck tightly in his fist.

I don't have the stomach for this. Maybe they do, maybe Zev does, but not me. Am I too sentimental? Will this get us hunted if I let him go, or if I kill him? "I left his friends alive. How does that change the game?" Several of them hiss, as though at a stinging wound. "That's what I thought. Okay, you get behind him, and whisper in his ear." Angelo nods, and I crouch down in front of the man, dagger in my hand. "Hey. Open your eyes and look at me." I wait a moment, and he does, cautiously. I smile cheerfully. "Hey. So, my friends here tell me that it would be better for me to kill you, because if I turn you over to the Crows, and they just maim you, you'll hold a grudge, maybe come after me. Maybe you, maybe your family, someone." I rub my lower lip, watching him, and he is riveted, that's for sure.

"I was thinking it might be a good idea to just kill you and be done with it, but then I remembered I was foolish enough to let your friends live. So I don't know what to do now. If I hand you to the Crows, you hold a grudge. If I kill you, then I must deal with the tedium of having to kill your family, or whoever comes after me for it. And yet, if I let you walk free, you learn nothing. You were two seconds from rape and murder, two seconds from causing a rift between the Wardens and the Crows. This cannot go unpunished. Nod your head if you understand." I stand up and pace back and forth in front of him, spinning the dagger in my hand, making a show of thinking.

"I'm told that the Crows would take a hand. Maybe I should take your tongue," I say, stopping, pointing the dagger at his mouth, watching his face transform with fear. "Or how about your eye? Surely you don't need both of them," I say, totally deadpan, letting the point of the dagger flick up to hover, weaving back and forth, in front of his left eye. Lifting a foot, I press my toes to his stomach, letting my heel hover over his lap, and lean in, making sure he can look me in the eye. "Maybe I should make sure that there are no more screaming and crying women under you, ever again. Should I do that? Hmm? Should I just unman you and send you on your way?"

I see the other Wardens shift uncomfortably, despite themselves, and have to suppress a smirk. "Or maybe, just maybe, I actually believe in the mercy of Andraste," I murmur, leaning even closer. "Maybe I believe that a man, given a second chance, will make a smarter choice. A better choice. Maybe that man will choose _life_." He stares at me, barely comprehending, while I let Angelo catch up, and then I lean down again, speaking to him confidentially. "You know, we're everywhere." I smirk. "You couldn't even tell that I was a Warden. Just imagine what could happen if you made a mistake like this again." I stand up, flip the dagger again, and then put my hand on my hip, pommel clenched in my fist so the blade points back behind me. "We will be watching you. Choose life. And when your friends ask you what happened, I want you to use these words. I want you to tell them that you must be an amusement to the Maker, because you experienced the personal mercy of a beautiful Grey Warden, and lived to tell of it. Do not make me regret this moment of weakness."

I back up a pace, watching him, and he is incredulous. My lip curls, and I jerk my head in the direction of the far end of this gap between the buildings. He pauses a moment more, then hastily scrambles to his feet and bolts. I sigh, seeing mixed reactions from the troops. Well... can't please everyone. I hand Angelo back his dagger and run my fingers through my hair, agitated. "I need to get home," I mutter, suddenly aching for it. I want Zev. I want to go back to the Warden base, fall into our bed, and have him there to hold me, curl up against his chest so I can listen to his heart beat, so I can pretend that nothing can hurt me, or us, as long as we bide in the circle of each others' arms.

But I can't have that.

So I have to settle for the next best thing: keep moving until I fall over from exhaustion. "Glad I am we were in the right place to help you, sister," one of the Wardens says, and I nod.

"Me too. Thank you."

The knowledgeable one crosses his wrists over his chest and nods to me. "We must be back to our patrol. May your afternoon go more pleasantly," he says, turning away, and the others turn with him. I bite my lip, hesitating, but I really can't afford to be wandering the city all day while I get my bearings.

"Wait... Angelo, would you walk with me back to the base? I'm lost, honestly. After I dealt with those other guys I just took off running..." Angelo smirks as the others nudge him and mutter things that make them all chuckle and snort, and I roll my eyes. Being some of the few women in a house full of men, Leliana, the servant women and I have formed a bit of an sisterhood, because this is constant.

"Of course," is all he says, however, and, after a moment's hesitation, holds out his arm for me to take. We follow the others out of the gap and into the alley, parting ways with a wave at the street corner. Angelo puts his hand over mine, every inch the gallant knight. It takes him another block and a half to actually say something else. "You are... not what I expected."

I blink, my brow furrowing, and look up at him. "I'm not? What did you expect?"

He looks down at me, and I'm not sure I quite like the look in his eye. "Considering who you are, I did not expect such mercy, I am surprised that you were caught, and I do not understand why you are walking around by yourself without arms or armour."

I snort. "Well. Occasionally I have a soft spot, and have been known to spare a man lying helpless at my feet; even a Warden can only run so far without rest, and I may be unarmoured, but I'm not unarmed," I tell him with a shrug and a wicked grin.

Angelo spares me another remote glance, entirely unimpressed. "That neatly side-steps the question of _why_, exactly, you are out here unarmoured and alone."

I feel my lip curl a little bit at being caught, but I just smile brightly. "Yep!"

Angelo sighs, shaking his head, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "As you wish, sister.  
How about this, then: will you tell me a Blight tale?" I laugh, and after a bit of questioning, end up telling him about Ponka, how I got him, and my theory on why he's actually a Warden. We're laughing about the half-rabbit in Morrigan's pack when we finally reach home, and he turns with me, intending to leave me on the doorstep. I smile up at him, relieved.

"Thank you, Angelo. I owe you a favour. I won't forget."

He looks taken aback for a moment, then smiles, crosses his arms over his chest, and bows his head at me. "It is an honour, sister. Be well."

I take a deep breath before I open the door, letting it out slowly. This can't happen again. I feel like an idiot. The very first thing I need to do is find Alistair, and get him to show me a map of the city.


	19. Confidence

Alistair leans back in his chair, watching me carefully. His ankle is propped on one knee, elbow resting on the edge of the table, thumb under his chin and forefinger curled over his upper lip. _I'm_ very carefully _not_ looking at him while I pore over a map of the city, leaning over his desk across from him with my left palm flat to the table. I scrub at my eyes with my right wrist, tired as hell already after everything that's happened today. This... has got to be one of the worst days of my life.

"Tell me what you're up to, Lily," he says, and it's not a request, but I shake my head, leaning to the left so I can follow the lines of the streets off the Strada Rosa with my fingertip.

"You don't want to know." Alistair brings the flat of his hand down on the desk firmly, making me spring back at the sudden noise, heart in my throat. The look on his face turns my stomach to jelly, and I swallow. "Okay, maybe you do," I say quickly, only a little bit breathless. "Sorry, I just-"

"You still act like you don't trust me," he says, and it's almost a growl, so dark it makes me sit down abruptly on the chair behind me, open-mouthed. "How much do I have to give for you to believe in me?"

His hazel eyes bore into my heart and make my cheeks colour with shame. "Gods, Alistair, I'm sorry... That's not my motivation at all, I swear. I hate that I've tangled you in all this; I'm just trying to spare you."

He looks at me for a long moment, then shakes his head, chuckling softly. "Spare me. That's good. That's a good one."

I hang my head. Damn me for an idiot. "Ugh, that's not what I meant either. Look, can we just back up a minute? Here's some truth for you: I'm in over my head so deep I'm drowning, and I don't want to drag you down with me. How about that?"

"And that's it? That's just going to have to be good enough, is it?" he shoots back, and I sigh, grimacing and looking at my hands as the silence stretches on for a very uncomfortable moment.

"How secure is this room?" I finally ask, looking around at the walls, and Alistair sits up suddenly, all four legs of the chair coming down on the floor with a thump. "We better get Lels too, actually."

"Anders, as well," he says, already standing. "You stay here," he says in his Warden Commander voice, pointing at me, and I blink.

"Oh- Okay," I acquiesce meekly, and it's his turn to be stunned for a second, but then he smirks, shaking his head, and goes out. I stand up and work on the map again, trying to fix the shape of the city in my mind's eye, all the main streets and the pattern of the parks, major landmarks and which streets lead back down to the docks. Most importantly, where the hell am I in relation to everywhere else?

After a short time, Alistair comes back with Anders and Lels, Ponka hot on their heels, and they all look at me expectantly. I swallow hard and take a deep breath. May as well jump in at the deep end. "Zev is going to take over the Crows," I begin, to the shock of everyone in the room, then lay it all out for them, everything, including today's letter, but not the fact that Ferrilin's boy is Zev's son, nor how we got to and from the meeting with Ignacio. Some of these secrets aren't mine to tell. Through it all, Ponka looks from one to another of us, listening intently, and damned if he doesn't seem to understand everything we're saying. "I don't know what the bit about the thief and the kitchen maids is, though, nor whether the gift I'm to bring is supposed to be deadly. I've been thinking I might need to talk to Enzo, because he's the only Crow I know how to get a hold of," I conclude.

In the moment of silence, as everyone chews it over, Ponka deliberately rises and sits down next to me, head high, and looks up at me, regarding me seriously. I drop my hand to his head, smiling at him. "Thank you."

Alistair has been steadily glaring at his desk, hard enough that I'm surprised there aren't two smoking holes in it. Anders leans against the wall with his arms folded over his chest, brow furrowed, and Leliana paces restlessly, gears clicking behind those shrewd blue eyes. "You didn't understand the passage about the thief and the kitchen maids, did you," she says flatly, not a question, and I look up, blinking.

"No... But you sound like you do."

She pauses for a moment, eyes flicking to Alistair, considering what she wants to say, and then blind-sides me with the obvious. "Have you ever heard Gina and Serena chattering to each other about the Wardens?"

"Yeah, Gina likes-"

Enzo.

"Oh."

Enzo, our messenger to and from Ignacio. Zev went out of his way to send me a message through someone else _other_ than him.

"Shit."

Enzo, who overheard the conversation Alistair and I had, the night he confronted me.

"_Shit._"

"Indeed," she replies dryly, and I smack my forehead with my palm. How did I not see this?

Ignacio confirmed that he's a former Crow. Oh, which means that while Enzo was having me followed to the cafe, Zev followed him someplace, and oh, I bet he's dead. Hah. _Former_ Crow. _Is_ there such a thing, really? Who better to have been in command of the abduction in the first place? And he knows who I am, which means that the Crows are not fooled by anything. Motherfucker. Oh gods, and that could mean they know that if one of us dies, we both die.

I can feel the hair raising on my head as my brain dumps another shot of adrenaline into me.

"Fuck."

Oops, I said that out loud. Alistair's eyebrows have been steadily climbing his forehead, and now he's looking at me with something akin to the alarm I'm feeling.

Oh gods, this isn't fantasy, this is real, oh gods, I hate this shit. There's no save point, no going back and making a different choice so it goes properly, no starting the scene over if I die. No turning back. _Oh Ares, Athena, protect us._ Dizziness overtakes me and my stomach turns as I feel all the blood rush out of my head at once. I bend over from the waist and stick my head between my knees, trying to breathe.

"Whoa, Lily, are you okay?" Anders is at my side in an instant as I break out in a cold sweat, his light shining near my temple.

"Hmh," I murmur, more of a whimper, really, and try to get control of myself. "Just- Too much in one day. I left out the part where I was nearly raped and murdered by some asshole and his two friends down by the docks on my way back." I laugh, shaky and half hysterical.

"What? How did that happen?" Alistair says, indignant and shocked, and I choke on another laugh.

"I'm a woman and I was by myself. How do you think it happened? I got lost, like a gods-damned amateur." I sigh and sit up a little bit, the dizziness passing. Holding my head in my hands, elbows on my knees and fingers in my hair, I try to think past the thunder of blood in my ears. "Fuck. Okay. Someone's going to have to go and check the place out, somehow."

"I could do that," Leliana says, and I look up at her. She is totally cool, knows exactly what she's doing. It's such a relief that _someone_ does.

"Okay, okay good... find out as much as you can."

Alistair leans forward, both forearms on the desk now. "Look, I may not be the smartest man in the room, but I can see that you and Leliana know something that nearly made you faint at the thought of it. You're not that sort of woman, Lily, so what is it?"

"We've lost our element of surprise. The Crows know. Maybe everything."

"What? How?"

"Double-agent," I say, and when Alistair blinks, uncomprehending, I sigh again. "Ummm... Have you seen Enzo, since I left?"

He shakes his head. "Noooo... What's Enzo got to do with anything?"

"Gina has a crush on him. The kitchen maid." I swallow, then continue on, grim and matter-of-fact. "I expect we'll find him dead somewhere, if we find him at all. No such thing as a living 'former Crow'... Not even Zev," I finish softly, more and more dread piling into my stomach. Surely I'll reach a critical mass at some point, a place where the word 'terror' ceases to have any meaning, where I'll be able to be as calm about this as he is. Then again, I'm beginning to think that he's just better at hiding it than I am. "Oh man, I think I'm gonna be sick," I say, hanging my head again, and I hear a rustling and a flutter of footsteps around me, and then a cool cloth pressed to the back of my neck.

"Hmm... Have you eaten today?" Leliana asks, and I really have to think.

"Um... The boys gave me a giant plate this morning as payment for grilling me about the broodmother."

"And lunch?" she asks, archly, and I sigh.

"Coffee and biscotti," I admit.

Leliana snorts, and Anders produces an apple from his satchel, presenting it in my field of vision. "Thanks," I murmur as I sit up. The smell as it nears my nose makes my stomach cramp painfully and my mouth water all at once. I press a hand over my stomach, grimacing, waiting for it to pass, and swallow that black water; it's almost as though my body can't determine whether it wants to devour or purge. Closing my eyes, I force it to decide, and take a bite. Everything calms down after a moment, and then I feel a little more normal.

It's strange how so much can depend on such a small thing. Eating is a hassle.

"No wonder the hunger hit you so hard," Alistair murmurs, "You forget to eat." He doesn't mean my temporary faintness, he means the Warden hunger. I look up at him as my stomach clenches again, and I think maybe I know a shadow of it, from that constant gnaw when I was homeless. It sets a person on permanent edge. Another facet is added to the ways in which I respect this man.

"What do you want us to do?" Anders asks, an entirely reasonable question, one to which I have no firm answer.

"I... I really don't know." The apple is gone, nothing but a core in my hand, and I have no clear memory of eating it. "Clearly, I have to go. I don't know what or whom to bring with me, what to say when I get there-"

"I can help with that part," Leliana says. "You said he extended you an invitation. It has been some time since your arrival; it is entirely reasonable to say that you would have acquired a handmaid by now. Getting inside the house, where I might be able to converse with the servants, will be a good beginning, no?"

I nod. She speaks sense. There are a million things that will become clearer with a closer look at the house and its inhabitants.

"It's not too late to go. I'll leave at once," she says, turning for the door.

"Lels," I say, and she turns.

"Hmm?" I look up at her, at this woman with clear blue eyes, and she is intimidating as hell. Capable, strong, and a survivor of a war that I only watched happen, and now she's putting her life on the line for us. Oh gods, I have no idea what I'm doing. The only thing I can do is keep running forward as fast as I can and hope I don't hit a wall.

"Thanks." I hope she can read in my eyes some of what I'm thinking, which is more than I'm able to say. She gives me a solemn nod, just one quick second of acknowledgement, and then her typical smile with a wink, before she is gone, leaving me with Anders and Alistair, and Ponka's head heavy in my lap. "I don't think I can make any more coherent plans until we have more information, honestly," I admit.

"You're over-exhausted and half-starved anyway," Anders says cheerfully, and I give him a baleful look. He just grins at me, and I really can't hold it. "You know I'm behind you, Lily, whatever the plan is going to be, but right now, you need to see to yourself for a minute, or you won't be standing long enough to get there."

I sigh, knowing he's right, and resentful of the necessity. "I know, I know," I bemoan, rubbing at my temples. I haven't had a migraine in months, but it seems like one might be brewing now. "And thank you. I guess the next items on the agenda should be food and sleep."

Anders and Alistair decide to come with me to the kitchens, and I can't determine whether it's because they're hungry or if it's to make sure I'm actually going to eat, but in either case, I'm glad of the company. I stuff myself full with an early dinner, talking of inconsequential things to take my mind off the screaming panic I'm trying really hard not to heed, bid them good night, and take a small cup of wine with me up to our room. Sitting heavily on the bench at the foot of the bed, I gaze dully out the window at the brilliant Antivan sky, so blue and innocent, arching over all the machinations and treachery below. It's about an hour to sundown. If I take these powders that Anders gave me right now, I'll be able to get up and move again around one or two a.m., which should give me plenty of time for night manoeuvres, if necessary.

I peel off my sandals and toss them aside. Examining my damaged toe, I determine that, although the nail is split, I'll live. At least it isn't broken. Before I can do anything else, Ponka licks it, effectively cleaning the blood off it. He looks up at me calmly, sort of matter-of-fact, and my protest dies on my lips, unspoken. Ah, hell. Maybe he knows something I don't. At least he's saved me the necessity of washing it off. Gross. Whatever.

Looking at the little piece of parchment, I read Anders' instructions again: _Place one packet under tongue for gradual effect. Swallow with water for delayed effect; dissolve in wine for immediate effect. Plan for 8 hours uninterrupted._

Well, here's my wine. I dump the contents of one packet - there are two here - into my cup, tuck the other into the trunk, and crack the door open. "Ponka," I say, turning to my dog, and he looks up, quirking an eyebrow. "I'm about to take some kind of medicine I've never had before. It's going to make me sleep, and I might not be able to wake up if something happens, not until it's going on third watch, so I'm leaving the door open just enough that you can get out and get help, if anything goes wrong." He cocks his head, and I can't help but smile at him, the way he grins, and I reach down to ruffle his ears. "You're such a good dog," I tell him fondly, and he barks once, short and sharp, in happy agreement.

He parks himself by the door, blocking it from opening any further, and squares himself, my loyal sentinel. Shrugging out of the belts that hold my dress on, I leave the puddle of fabric on the floor next to the bed, chug the bitter-flavoured wine, and crawl in. Pulling Zev's pillow into my arms, I bury my face in it, smothering myself with his scent as I slip into unconsciousness.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

My back is screaming with burning pain, and shifting doesn't help it. Stirring, I wake to see the familiar sight of my shop door. Sitting up on the hard bench, looking around, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I am truly a frightening spectre. My cheeks are gaunt, my hair a terrifyingly wild tangle. I look exhausted, pale, worn thin. I'm wearing nothing but a nightgown. Looking around my shop, I see that there are drawings and writing all over the walls in pencil.

Oh gods, how long have I been here?

A small pile of papers and three pencils lay on my table, and I haul myself to my feet, shocked at how weak I feel. Tottering over to it, I look down, and see the frenzied scribblings of someone entirely unhinged. I am horrified by what I read, pages upon pages, detailing everything that I've been doing in Antiva. I flip through them impatiently, and read the last lines on the last page. _"I curl around the pillow, wrapping my arms tightly around it, hoping against hope that perhaps tomorrow, my husband will be returned to me, and I will not have to sleep alone again, waiting for that moment when he wraps his arms around me, that illusion of safety that only comes when he is near me."_ Every moment. Oh gods. I drop it like it might burn me, backing away from the table.

I look at my hands. My nails have grown long, and there is an angry red weal on my right ring finger, where my pencil rests. Looking at myself through the neckline of my gown, I see that I have dropped weight rapidly, my skin hanging loose in a decidedly unhealthy way, grown a waxy sort of yellow from imprisonment behind shuttered doors and windows, without sunlight. With a feeling of sick dread, I look back up at my reflection, and go closer to the mirror to examine my face, my teeth. Could I have scurvy? I feel like shit.

My face is lined, and shadowed with bruises both old and new, but at least I'm clean, and closer to the sink, I can see that I've got some soap. Hmmm... at least I haven't been eating it... right? I pull my sleeves up to check my arms, and find multiple finger-print bruises on them. Lifting the hem of my nightgown, I see that my legs are no better. In all honesty, I'm afraid to look at my back.

My breath fogs the mirror and I lean back, waiting for it to fade. All of it dissipates, save for a hand-print, which remains there, perfectly shaped, even showing the lines of palm and fingers. Reaching out, I brush a fingertip across the fog, and it doesn't wipe away. Matching my left hand up to it, I find that both palm and fingers are slightly longer and wider than mine. It's _someone's_ right hand, but it's not mine. What the hell? The glass grows warm beneath my hand, and I lean closer, and closer still. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I get right up to the glass and peer into it, like I would if it were a two-way mirror. Beyond the darkness of my own face, something flickers, a movement, another pair of eyes that definitely do _not_ look anything like mine, and I jump, scrambling backward, heart in my throat.

I'm still standing there staring at my own frightened reflection when the locks on the door begin to rattle, distracting me. My eyes immediately light on the papers, my scribblings. Quickly, before Tommy can finish opening the door, I take the papers and stuff them in the gap above the table drawer. I have no idea if there's anything else up there, and I don't have time to check. I barely get the drawer closed in time. Tommy stops in the doorway, holding a plate with a sandwich on it, and looks at me, momentarily surprised.

"You're awake!" The way he says this does not bode well.

"Uh... yeah...?" Clearly I haven't been exactly present lately. "What... What's going on?" I ask, not liking how thin and nervous my voice is. I steal a glance at the mirror, but the hand print has gone. I wonder if it was ever actually there at all. Tommy catches the direction of my gaze, looks at our reflections in the mirror, then back to me.

"Are you still having problems with the mirror?" he asks, moving further into the room, though I notice that he still keeps himself between me and the door. It gives me a little bit of heart that I've still been fighting, apparently, even though I haven't really... been _here_, exactly. What has he been feeding me?

I swallow. "I hate mirrors, Tommy, you know that."

His eyebrows raise; I've surprised him again. "You know who I am today!" What can I say to that? I don't want to admit too much ignorance.

"Uh... Yeah." I run my fingers through my hair self-consciously, with eyes now for nothing but the sandwich he is putting on the table, as my stomach clenches with hunger.

"Are you going to eat?" he asks, watching me carefully, and I look up, blinking.

"Uh... that was the plan..." I agree cautiously, not liking it at all when he looks relieved by the answer. Tommy holds his hands out, empty, as he approaches me, like one would a frightened animal. There's nowhere for me to go, cornered like I am, so all I can do is let him close in and put his hands on me. He pulls me into a hug, wrapping his arms around me and picking me up off the floor as he buries his face in my shoulder. I repress a shudder as my body reacts with a loathing so complete I can taste it, and I try not to gag.

"I miss you, Lily," he whispers, voice kind of choked, and there's nothing coherent I can say to that, either, that wouldn't get me hurt, so I settle for a whimper as a reply. Opening my eyes, trying to focus on something else until he lets go of me, I end up looking at our reflection in the mirror, my face so tiny above his shoulder. Tommy continues to whisper meaningless things into my hair, all about how much he loves me and how he's doing all this for me, and how much it hurts him, blahbitty blahbitty blah. I've heard these platitudes so often, I can say them in my sleep, so I just hang there, letting him natter on, staring sightlessly at the mirror.

Well, almost sightlessly. I'll never trust those things. As I stare at the reflection of my table, the space I was standing in when I saw the hand print, I see it ripple, like a flag in a breeze. Tommy feels me stiffen and thinks it's due to whatever he was saying just now, because he draws back, looking into my eyes, both confused and sort of hopeful.

"You don't like that idea?" he asks, and I just agree; whatever it is, I don't like it on principle, just because it's his idea. I should've been listening, since the next thing he does is kiss me heatedly, surprising the hell out of me, and as my brain catches up, I realize that he'd been talking about how scared he was that we'd never get to be together again.

Fuck.

I do my best to react the way he wants me to, thinking that maybe if I can get him to take me into the house, I'll have a better chance of escaping. I can feel his... _need_ for me growing against my thigh, and I suddenly have a very clear picture of where this is going to go. At this point, he thinks I've agreed, so I can't back out now; I'll have to put on a performance. I wrap my arms around his shoulders as he begins to put his hands all over me, clinging for dear life and hoping I can keep myself steady long enough to get through this, and all the while, I watch our reflection as it continues to do strange things, rippling and distorting, moving back and forth. As he lays me on the table, I realize that the movement is man-shaped and pacing, not so much see-through as bending reality around himself, like Predator's camouflage.

My preoccupation doesn't escape Tommy's notice, and he looks at our reflection, too, but he doesn't seem to see what I do... which just goes to prove that I probably _am_ crazy. I mean, what the fuck, doors to Narnia don't actually exist. There is just one psycho fangirl who's gone off the deep end, and her abusive boyfriend who has locked her in the shop to keep her from running around naked in the streets. "Naughty girl," he murmurs with a dark smile that makes my stomach turn, but I give him a giggle because it's what he wants, and it lets me keep watching the mirror, which is something I've never wanted to do before.

I definitely don't want to be watching or thinking about what Tommy's about to be doing, but I can't really help it, not if I want to keep an eye on the man in the mirror. Like one of those "Magic Eye" stereogram things, now that I've seen him, he's getting clearer, so long as I don't look away. I can see the shape of his face now, and the fingers on his hands.

Tommy continues to fumble and grope at me, and I let my hands just wander around as my gown slowly rises. I can feel my heart hammering in my chest, and try to squash down the sudden wild panic. I don't want him to touch me, but I don't see how I have any choice. I could fight, let him bruise me some more, turn it into violent rape, or submit, let him think that I like what's going on, and it won't hurt. Whoever that man is, I don't want him to see me like this.

Gods, I must be crazy. I believe there's a man in the mirror.

The man's pacing becomes more and more agitated as Tommy's actions progress, and as he readies himself, the man stops pacing abruptly and grows larger, striding toward the glass. Scary! Against my better judgement, I close my eyes, not wanting to give anything away. Things need to get better, not worse. I can't show anything that might feed into Tommy's belief that I'm crazy. He might be right, but I'm lucid enough right now to know that what's going on here isn't sane or safe, either. If I _am_ crazy, and it looks like I might be, then I need an institution, not this. Oh gods, not this.

Daring to look at the mirror again, I can see the man standing there, hands pressed to the glass, making foggy prints. I search out his eyes, find that piercing blue that frightened me away in the first place, and I see the moment he knows I'm looking at him, as he abruptly shifts toward me, like he would come through the barrier if he could. I hold his gaze steadily, as he holds mine, and there is a peace there, a release of sorts from what is happening. Dissociation? Probably. Also possible I'm hallucinating from whatever drugs Tommy has been feeding me, I could be sick... Who knows. What I _can_ say is, the eyes I'm looking into right now are far kinder than the ones above me.

As Tommy shoves himself within me, the man in the glass raises his hand, stroking his fingers down it, as though he would caress me himself. It is through him, the distraction he provides in the calm, unwavering weight of his gaze, that it becomes bearable, that I am able to simply let it ride. The man steps back as Tommy gains his completion, his hand prints fading from the glass, though I can still see him. I tear myself away, closing my eyes and turning my face as Tommy gathers me up in his arms, whispering something. I don't even care anymore. I hold him and pet his hair, let him lay his head on my breast, and try really hard not to think about the fact that he just barebacked me and I don't know when or if I've taken any of my birth control pills recently. Probably not.

Don't think about it.

Eventually, Tommy pulls himself away from me and puts himself back together. "Can I come inside?" I ask meekly, and he pauses, slowing as he finishes buttoning his pants. I blink, my brow furrowing. Buttons? Since when does Tommy wear button-fly jeans?

"Hmm..." he says, chewing his lower lip. "I want to say yes, but it's only one afternoon, Lily. We can't take that kind of chance, yet. You have to be like this for a few more days." He comes forward again, touches my hair affectionately, and I have to fight not to ball my hands up, to smile up at him, to show nothing but understanding, patience, and love.

"Okay," I say, simply. "Can I have a hairbrush?"

He gives me that smirky smile that used to make me giggle, but now it just turns my stomach, and I have to smile back. "Sure... I'll bring it in when I come back next. Anything else?" he asks, but the edge creeping into his eyes tells me that I'd better make it a good one if I do take him up on it.

"Uh... Well... Maybe some more paper, but... Other than that, no..." I say, averting my gaze as he snorts, his mood instantly cooling from jovial to bitter.

"Sure. More paper." He makes a disgusted little click of a sigh in the back of his throat, and then he is out the door with a bang, locks rattling on the other side. I listen carefully, waiting to hear his footsteps recede, then I rush over to the sink, clamber up into it, and turn on the tap, washing frantically. I don't think anything could ever make me feel clean again.

It is as I finish this that I remember the man with the blue eyes, and look up, the water still falling over my toes. He is standing just on the other side of the glass, right next to me. I find his eyes again as my fingers automatically turn off the tap, and he holds up his hand; when I press my palm to his, the glass is warm.

I blink, startled, and his gaze is level, serious, as I put my other hand up, and he meets me, a moment later. I feel the change in temperature when his hand lines up with mine, and gasp, surprised. Can hallucinations be tactile, too? Fuck, I don't know. The little bit of acid I took as a teenager didn't really prepare me for this. I feel lucid; I always knew before when I wasn't, but such things can creep on a person and if I've been fed a bunch of drugs, what perceptions _can_ I trust? Climbing down out of the sink, my feet make wet prints across the floor.

The man and I pace back and forth, looking at each other, trying to touch, to reach, always coming up against that cold barrier... much like I described my experience of Thedas to Zev. I look at those eyes again and again, trying to determine whose they might be, but that pale ice blue just doesn't match anyone I know. Eventually the gnawing hunger becomes too much for me, and so, drugged though it undoubtedly is, I have to eat the food that Tommy left me. I sit down with the plate, next to the mirror, and after a moment, the man drops down to the ground on the other side, sitting across from me. I put the plate and cup between us, looking at him carefully.

"Can you hear me?" I ask, my voice quiet and nervous in the still air of my shop. He cocks his head, and I put my hand to the glass again. "Can you hear me?" I ask once more, a little more steadily, and after a moment, he shakes his head, no. Sighing, I sit back, shaking my own head. I look down at the sandwich, then back up at him, as he regards me steadily, no doubt wondering what I'm going to do next. I point to the plate and the cup, then mime eating it and passing out, falling to the side in an apparent faint.

Opening my eyes again, I look up to find the man on his feet, pacing, agitated. He stops across from me, hands on his hips, and he gestures at the food, makes a throwing gesture. I sigh and press a hand to my stomach, grimacing. He runs his hand through his hair, agitated, paces some more, but there's nothing to be done. He can't save me, and neither can I. Eventually, I have to pick up the sandwich. When he sees me do it, he stops, coming over to me quickly, crouching down so that his whole side leans against the glass, creating a fog in the shape of his body. I scoot closer, moulding myself to the shape of him, and I swear the glass is warmer where he touches it. I can feel him, and his presence is a comfort to me, as I eat this drugged food, and after a few minutes, where I look into his eyes, as close to him as I am able to get, I do indeed pass out.

Sleep is no respite. I wake again, my back a screaming riot. I should know better. Sitting on the floor is agony, laying on it much worse, but I couldn't do anything else at the time, and now I'm paying for it. I look up, almost as helpless as an overturned turtle, to find the man still sitting there, watching over me. I reach out, immediately, and his hand is there, pressing to the glass on the other side, a reassuring warmth against my fingertips.

Gods, I must be crazy.

Eventually, I manage to pry my recalcitrant body off the floor, climbing the table leg until I can haul myself upright. By the time I'm finally under my own power, I'm shaking and sweating, every bit of cartilage in my back screaming white hot agony, my head pounding like taiko drums. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to scream. Eventually, I manage to recover my breath enough to turn around, and the man is standing there, hovering, both hands pressed to the mirror, forearms making long stripes of fog, his forehead making another oval between them. With his shoulders slumped, he looks defeated, and half-heartedly thumps his fist against the glass, making it thud hollowly.

Wait, do hallucinations carry auditory components? I don't remember.

Occam's Razor clearly indicates that this is the drugs talking, though.

Strange... All my lifelong fear of mirrors, and suddenly I invent a friend _in_ one? Doesn't quite make sense... But drugs do strange things to our heads.

Staggering over to the make-shift bed, I collapse upon it, finding it only moderately softer than the floor, and moan with the ache of it.

For three more days, as far as I can tell, this becomes my pattern. Tommy brings me three meals a day, corners me again, and begins to treat me with some measure of affection. I am entrusted with my hairbrush, which is a relief, and then rewarded for good behaviour with a trip into the house for an actual shower. I have to pay for this with physical favours, but at least I get to stand under the hot spray, which relaxes a lot of the tense muscles in my upper back, even if it can't do much for the lower half. I even manage to finagle myself a few cushions for my little pallet, to make it easier to inhabit. He tells me every day how much I am improving, how much he loves that I'm making peace with the mirror, with my reflection.

I have no idea how to respond to these comments, so I just smile and nod, and bide.

Meanwhile, the man becomes more and more solid, more and more visible. On the third afternoon, when I've woken from the drug-induced coma, I look up at him, and I realise I can see his face. I _do_ know him, but it only confuses me more.

"Tamlen?" Why on earth would I make up _Tamlen_, of _all_ people? I'd have thought it would be Zev. Even Alistair. But Tamlen?

I stare at him in sheer bafflement, looking him up and down, and I can see him mouth my name, coming over to the glass again and putting his hands to it. Despair grips me hard, and I look at him despondently. He leans forward, fogging the glass with his breath, and writes two words: "_main era_". I stare at him, uncomprehending, as the mist fades, he looks so sad. He writes it again, and I try to understand what he's telling me, but it doesn't make any sense.

Main era? Is he talking about now? Synonyms... primary, central, major... time, generation, epoch... This isn't helping. I start pacing, and he strikes the mirror, harder, making me jump, making me look back at him again. Impatiently, he fogs the glass. "_main era_." He points at his words as they fade, urgently. I shrug, spreading my hands, no idea what he's trying to tell me.

Tamlen puts a hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and I draw closer, putting my hand up, warming the mirror, fogging it on my side. He looks up, presses his hand to mine, rests his forehead against the glass again, and I copy him, feeling the warmth of his face against my own. A heavy sigh, by the way his shoulders lift and drop, fogs the mirror on his side. After a moment, he looks at me once more, those blue eyes piercing mine, and steps back. One more time, he breathes a patch to write in, but this time, he writes "_vir adahlen_".

I feel my jaw drop. He's been writing in Elvish. Elvish! It's not "main era", it's "_ma in era_" - "You're in a dream."

I stare at him, dumbfounded for a second while that sinks in. Tamlen - not someone I would make up, and writing in Elvish, something I've nearly forgotten about while trying to learn Antivan as fast as I can... Wait a minute. This is the dream. This is a _dream_. I'm dreaming! It starts to occur to me, all the things that are not quite right. Tommy's button-fly jeans. The lack of his constant justifications. How the hell did I get here in the first place? Dragged senseless off the beach, but standing up in front of the fire? Why have I never heard Wanderer meowing around the door? Where is the smell of salt water? _Nolan_.

All these things flash through my mind in the blink of an eye, and it's like shaking off a heavy stupor. Spinning, quickly scanning the room from that point of view, I can see so many small details that aren't right. Little things that only I would know to look for, if I were paying attention, like the knothole in the beam across the top of the sink that looks like a duck. It's not there. In fact, the roof isn't exactly entirely solid. It looks like someone got it with the smudge tool. 'Cause no one ever thinks to look up, of course... Turning my head too quickly, I catch the blur at the corner of my eye.

_This is a prison of my own making!_

In that case...

I turn back to Tamlen. Mirrors.

Fuck mirrors.

If this is the Fade, I can do whatever the fuck I want, if I have enough willpower for it, right? And I've got a tattoo, given to me by a woman with tremendous power, that might help me here, give me a light in the dark. I look down at myself, pulling my nightgown away from my side, and see the lines that curl down my ribs and swirl over my hip. No. I'm not crazy.

Oh my gods, I'm _not_ crazy.

D&D logic: once you know you're facing an illusion, you can roll to disbelieve. I close my eyes, and I simply do not believe in this place. Thedas fairy tale rules: I think about the trip through Kinloch, rescuing Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana from their dreams, and how they had to be convinced before they could see through it. Putting my hands out toward where the mirror was - for I have now decided that it should no longer be there, if I'm not looking at it - I walk forward purposefully, with the full intention of simply grabbing Tamlen.

"Lily!" My name, barked behind me in Tommy's voice makes me jump, at the same time that a softer, different voice says it, in front of me. I open my eyes as hands close around mine, pulling me forward, into the arms of an elf I've technically never met before, but who is looking at me with an intimacy that makes a small bird take wing and flutter frantically behind my breast. No time for that, though, as Tommy stalks toward me. He can't have just appeared; I never even heard the locks. And besides, there's no mirror anymore, either. On this side of the wall, there's just the sketchy impression of sand, like a poor backdrop, a two-dimensional set.

Oh shit, that means Tommy's a-

"Run!" Tamlen says, pushing me behind him in the next instant. He pulls his bow down over his shoulder and takes aim at Tommy, keen hunter's eye measuring the goal with ease and precision. I don't stop to watch, much as I wish I could. I've learned that when someone with that kind of capable eye tells you to do something in a crisis, you bloody well do it. I've also learned that when you run, you don't look back, you watch where you're going. If you're still running when they're not behind you, that's okay, but if you stop at the wrong moment, you're dead.

So I leg it.

There are strange twisting paths all over the place, and I recognize the lyrium ferns, though there's no way that pixels could ever have done them justice. They glow like fractal fireflies. It doesn't take long for a second pair of feet to overtake me; Tamlen runs up on my side, seizes my wrist, and tugs me on after him.

Dream logic: just like following Nolan, I let everything blur past us, keeping my eyes on the ground. I now realize that when Nolan taught me to do this, he was making sure that he was the one controlling our destination. When we stop, I look up to find we are standing in the middle of a stand of birch, their yellow leaves raining down like feathers and carpeting the ground.

"_El reth'an sahlin, melanaen, lethallan,"_ Tamlen says, and realize I'd forgotten how soft the burr of his voice was. I've also forgotten too much Elvish. We're safe here, for now. True enough. The moment we've stopped, he is standing close to me, invading my space, nearly chest-to-chest, his hand rising to trace lines over my forehead, down my cheek, lines that aren't there, have never actually been there. _"Na vallaslin'din... Ma tu'dar da'len,"_ he says, laughing softly, and I blush, in spite of myself. Of course, he would never have seen Lily Mahariel without her ink as an adult; my naked face would remind him of their childhood. _"U'araval na'din, sa'nehn. Ar ma'isala mana. Uth. Sahlin."_

I can feel my eyes grow wider and wider as he whispers this fierce stream of Elvish, calling me his 'one joy', and before I really have the time to process the fact that he's telling me he's been waiting forever to find me again, he closes the slight distance between us and lays a very heated kiss on me that curls my toes. I can feel the intense desire in him as he holds me like he's always known me, fitting his body against mine in a certain, confident way that leaves me breathless. No one but Zev has ever pressed to me quite like this, and it stuns me to silence, my body reacting under the hands of someone who clearly knows how to touch it. He provokes me to a whimper with the way his hands travel up my sides, before I'm able to draw back.

I look at him, searching his face, looking for all the things that Lily Mahariel would have seen, all those long years growing up with him in the wilds of the Brecilian Forest, and I know why she was pulled to him. I can see it in the breadth of his shoulders and the strength in his arms, echoes of the things that draw me to Zev, all the grace and power of a stalking cat. I can see it in his eyes, how he misses nothing, how he seems to see straight through me. Oh, the hunter. He reaches up, cupping my cheek in his palm, thumb crossing my cheekbone.

"Do you remember this place?" he asks, and I look around, racking my brain, trying to remember what I wrote about Lily Mahariel's origin. What gives it away at last is the hillside.

"The journal," I breathe, and he nods.

"I caught you," he whispers, kissing me again, and this time I don't fight it. This man deserves more than just a kiss from me, considering all the detail I wrote into their backstory. As he draws back, his gaze has gained some darkness to its weight, and before I can say anything, he beats me to the punch.

"_Su melava? U shem'alas? Tu'din shem'din?"_ he asks, and they're fair questions. How did I come to be alone with a dirtbag like Tommy? Why didn't I kill him?

I shrug awkwardly. _"Elvarel'era,"_ I tell him, casting my eyes down, not really wanting to have to explain all this again to the ghost of a man who loved a woman that I never truly was. It's a long story.

He puts his thumb under my chin, tilting my face back up, making me look at him again, and this is the moment when I realize he's still got his arm around me, still holding me quite close. I am pinned by his gaze from inches apart, and he is so direct and no-nonsense that all my protests die unspoken. "_Dirth._ Tell me all of it," he says, utterly calm, entirely serious, and what else can I do? I'm still not awake.

Standing there in the middle of a dream of the Brecilian, in the arms of a man who loved me before I even really knew who I was, I tell Tamlen everything I know about their story, as cleanly as possible. I don't know where Lily Mahariel really is, so I just skip over that part, but he is far too keen for that. He doesn't let me get away with anything.

"All of it, Lily. It's far too late for hiding and lies," he says, and I hesitate, but he's right. What use do the dead have for being protected? I tell him the rest, including Tommy, me drowning, Zev, and the random times I end up speaking Elvish. Through it all, he stands there with me, never flinching, letting go or slackening his hold once, stomach to stomach. When I reach the part where I confess that I'm not Lily Mahariel at all, and move to step back, he pulls me forward again, twines his fingers with mine, and shakes his head. _"Nae. Dar emm'asha,"_ he murmurs, entirely sure of himself, making me blush again. Clearly there's no doubt in his mind that I'm his woman. "How could I have found you, otherwise?" I open my mouth to reply, but I've got no answer, and he laughs, not unkindly, brushing a strand of my hair back behind my ear.

"But... I'm a _shem_," I admit, helplessly. How could this man, of all people, find that okay?

He simply shrugs. "You are Lily." As though that answers everything. Perhaps for him, it does. "You have... bonded, though," he says, face falling a bit, and after a moment, I nod. "With a man who will keep you on the edge of danger, _lethallan_," he adds, and I bite my lip. Not again, not another lecture. His thumb strokes over my lower lip, and he looks so sad. "Dirthamen make silent your secrets; Mythal keep your blades sharp and your feet quick, my Lily."

This sounds like a goodbye. "I think the other part of me is still here, somewhere. I can feel it, sometimes. Things I shouldn't have any clear memory of, ways of moving or things I say by accident..."

"Your spirit isn't whole yet," he says, and I blink, entirely taken by surprise. I've been using that as an analogy, that 'half my soul was burned away', as a way to explain it. Could it be more than just this reality trying to impose her personality on me? Could it be that there is actually another piece of soul out there, waiting for me to find it and make myself 'whole', by fairy tale logic?

I stare at him, at a loss. "Y'think?" He arches an eyebrow, not exactly sure what I'm trying to say, and I laugh softly. "If you couldn't find it, how can I?"

He shrugs a shoulder. _"Na vhenan ven'vir arla,"_ he says. Hah. My heart will find its way home. Sure. My sarcasm dies unspoken as I meet his calm, entirely unconcerned gaze. Maybe he knows something I don't.

One could hope, right?

"Thank you," I whisper, and he smiles.

"_Melana'then, sahlin, emm'asha,"_ he says, and kisses me once more. Time to wake up?

"How-" I begin, but the next thing I'm aware of is a cold, white light, blinding me, surrounded by darkness, and Anders' voice, uncharacteristically barking in Antivan, followed by the sound of several pairs of booted feet retreating. "Anders?" I ask, trying to figure out what's going on, and I don't like at _all_ how slurred my voice is. "Wha-?"

"I'm here, Lily," he says, his face swimming into view, but I can barely make him out. He pats my cheek, and the coldness of the light intensifies as I reel. "It's not working," he says to someone over his shoulder, and then, "Try to stay awake," to me, but the darkness is pulling me down again.

"No- No-" I start, panicked, trying to hang on to him, but my arms, my hands, they won't work properly, and my tongue is thick in my mouth.

"We're losing her," someone says, and I can feel my eyes rolling up in my head.

"There's something-" Anders says, frustrated, and the light recedes. I can feel fumbling about the blankets next to me, and then he growls. "I should have known," he mutters. "She's got-"

"Lily!" Tommy's voice. My eyes are gritty. He's shaking me, bruising my arms; I tighten my jaw to stop from biting my tongue. I flail, try to push him back, but there's no escape. "Lily, my god, I thought I lost you." My eyes finally focus as I pry them open.

"What the fuck?" I blurt, blinking, staring at him. His face falls.

"I thought we were really making some progress," he says, shaking his head sadly. Leaning forward, he reaches up and brushes the hair out of my eyes, tucking it behind both ears. "What will it take for you to let me in, Lily? Just let me in. I can't help you if you don't let me in."


	20. Pride

I swallow hard, looking at Tommy, trying to figure out what the hell is going on in his head - my constant occupation. "I'm not trying to keep you out," I say, cautiously, "I'm just not sure what you want me to do."

He smiles at me, like I've finally realized something profound. "Tell me you'll have me, Lily. Tell me you want me. Tell me you'll be with me forever."

Riiiight, 'cause that's not creepy _at all_. "Uh- Are you asking me to marry you?" I ask, going for 'totally confused', dreading the answer. "I'm not sure that's-"

Tommy laughs at me, the hard edge of his inner reptile creeping into his eyes. "That's hardly appropriate," he chastises me, making me feel like a child with the way he stands over me, the way he looks at me with such disdain, and I feel my cheeks colour with shame. "No. I need you to make a commitment to me, right here, right now: no more fantasy. You need to accept this reality for what it is. Stop running from it."

Running.

Wait, there's something I need to remember. Something important. I feel my brow furrow and turn my face aside, biting my lip. Tommy takes this as an admission of shame, and begins to pace in front of me, still ranting. I tune him out, thinking furiously. Running. I was running, looking at the ground. Someone had my hand... Where was I? There's something I'm forgetting.

I've almost got it... I remember yellow, there was something yellow- "...can't have that kind of stress, in your delicate condition," Tommy says, and I blink.

What was I doing? Dammit! There was something I was trying to think about! What was it?

"Wait, what? Delicate condition?"

The dark smile that spreads across his face makes my bones melt with terror. He's looking at my stomach.

Oh no. Not again.

"You can't be acting like this, do you see? You've got a bigger responsibility now. You can't be selfish anymore - it's not just your life. If you can't learn to share it, maybe you don't deserve to." He stands up, walking over to the door, and then casts me another dark look, a disapproving look that tells me exactly what kind of pathetic, weak-willed mess I truly am. He shakes his head. "You need to _grow up_. I can only protect you for so long, Lily, before even I have to admit defeat. I hope you can come out of this soon." He turns on his heel and walks out, the locks rattling in succession, before I can gather my wits enough to speak.

I'm left to stare at the door, shocked to silence for a long time. At last, I look down at my belly, put a shaking hand over it. Oh gods, no. No. I'll never escape him now. And the threat... If I don't give him exactly what he wants, he'll kill it. Maybe me, too.

I draw my knees up, cover my face with my hands, and give in to despair for a time.

Pulling myself together at last, I hobble over to the sink and wash my face, the cold water stinging my eyes. Leaning over it, I remember crouching in it, washing frantically. Wait... There's something else about that. Why was I washing?

My brain feels like sludge. Why can't I remember anything?

Like a camera flash, I have an image of laying on the table, Tommy above me, and... and... I was... I was staring at the mirror. "_Naughty girl,"_ he said... Why was I looking at the mirror? Why would I want to?

There's something I'm missing... something critical, here... I trace the shape of the duck on the beam across the top of the sink with one fingertip. It's always been there, so why am I surprised to see it? There were things... Things I missed. Details. Something I'm forgetting. Maybe I wrote about it in my journal. Opening the drawer on the table, I feel around, but there's nothing in the hollow. Nothing at all. Slowly, I close the drawer. How is that even possible? Tommy knows nothing of my hiding place, or he would've said, and there would have been some kind of fallout from it anyway, so where did all my writing go?

The room begins to shake with a low rumble. Earthquake! Losing my balance and falling to my hands and knees, I scramble under the table and hold onto the legs, waiting for the ground to stop rolling. And wow, it's a bad one, easily 6... or 7... The lights go out, plunging me into pitch darkness. Good gods, will it never-

Everything is abruptly silent, the earth settling into that queasy, wobbly feeling it gets right after a bad quake. The door rattles and opens, creating a swathe of bright light and outlining Tommy's silhouette. "Lily!" he cries, rushing over to the table and dragging me out from under it by the arm. I scramble along and try to get my feet under me before my back takes the brunt of the weight-shift. He pulls me hard against him, and I swallow my bile, looking up at him. "I need to know I can trust you," he says, eyes wide and pleading. "I want to let you out of here, but I need to know that you'll have me, that we can be together."

Something about his badly-concealed panic sets off alarm bells in my head. "What do you mean, 'together'? We've been living together for nearly ten years," I reply, deliberately obtuse.

His eyebrows draw together in consternation, and he scowls, shaking me. "You need to say-"

"'-it isn't going to be enough," someone says, and I blink, trying to get my eyes to focus in the sudden darkness. There's that bright-white light again, blinding me. "Someone is going to have to go in there."

My tongue feels like so much dead meat in my mouth, my lips nearly refusing my commands. "Alishteuh?" My voice is a cracked whisper, and I turn my head away from the light. I'm sure that was Alistair's voice. With a monumental effort of will, I move my hand, reaching weakly toward the sound of him, before I become exhausted and it drops back to the bed to land beside me. "Wha-?"

Alistair's face resolves itself out of the general blur in front of me, very close, and I feel warmth envelop my hand. He looks worried and grim. "Stay with me, Lily," he says, pressing the back of my hand to his cheek, his eyes softening, and I blink.

"Whas happen?" My mouth just will not work properly, and I struggle to move, blinking and trying to lick my lips.

He reaches out with his other hand to brush the hair off my face, shaking his head. "I'm here. If it has to be someone, it will be me; I won't let anyone else touch you," he murmurs quickly, like he might be stopped. "I want you to know that-"

"Alistair, back up," Anders interrupts, and I turn my head again, with great difficulty, to see him crouched over me on my other side. He is sweating and pale, scaring me. He chugs a lyrium potion, a rather alarmingly large bottle, then reaches out and seizes my face between his hands. "Lily, listen to me. Don't compromise-"

"-if we're ever going to make it through this. Do you understand me?" Tommy asks, shaking me again, and I shake my head, trying to clear it. I feel so... washed out. I was doing something. What was I doing?

"What? What's happening?"

Tommy gives me another hard shake, making me bite my tongue. "Have you been off in your little fantasy again? _Right now_, right here _in front of me_, when I'm _talking_ to you? Seriously? Get a grip, Lily! Look at me!" he shouts, and shakes me once more, hurting my neck. The burst of pain sends stars in my eyes, but I do my best to open them, to look at him, so he won't shake me anymore.

"No, sorry, I- I've just got a headache," I say, shaking my head again. What was I thinking of? It's important. Something about yellow? And blue? Someone was holding my hand. Hazel eyes. Who has hazel eyes? There was-

"Promise me, Lily! Promise me that part is over. Promise me you'll grow up and act like a fucking adult for once, take responsibility for yourself and this baby. Promise me you'll be present, here, with me. Just let me in, Lily. Let me be enough. I could give you everything, anything you want."

I hear crunching in the gravel outside, the sound of a car pulling up, and Tommy lifts his head, turning in the direction of the sound. I wriggle, trying to pull free, but he looks back to me, his grip tightening. "They're here. You have to decide now."

"What? Why? Who's here?" My heart begins to thunder in my ears with the panic of what he says next.

"You're going to Western State," he says, eyes boring into mine, shattering my hopes of escape. If someone says you're barking mad, how do you prove you're not, without sounding defensive and crazy?

"You're committing me?" I ask, incredulous.

"I can't help you anymore."

A sudden terror grips me. They give you lots of medication in those places. You hear all kinds of horror stories: forced abortions, forced adoptions, rape, sedation, electro-shock - even today. Callous staff - abuses happen all the time. "No," I say, and I know I'm a little breathless.

He smiles, and it's a dark, cruel smile, one that I know very, very well. This is the smile where he means to push me into hurt because I've said something stupid, and he wants to demonstrate to me the consequences. "Too bad you can't stay with me, isn't it?" he asks, his tone almost conversational.

I don't want a chemical lobotomy. I don't want to bring a child into that mess. I don't want to be a mother and never know it. I don't want to be in the hands of people like that.

And I don't want to be here, either.

However... at least here, there's a possibility. Locked behind bars and straps and cuffs and chemicals, I don't stand a chance. I can feel tears filling my eyes. He's trapped me. "No," I say again, but this time I'm pleading, and my voice breaks.

His smile softens to that one when he's about to forgive me, if I just do precisely what he says next. "Give me a reason to tell them to go away," he says, softly. I can hear a voice outside, a man's voice, calling out... undoubtedly trying to find us.

Oh gods.

"Tell me that you want me to protect you from them, Lily. Tell me you'd rather stay here."

"I don't want to be committed," I whisper, agonized.

"Then help me convince them to go away," he says, and turns toward the door, dragging me with him.

Outside there is a man standing on the path, and I could swear I know him. He looks so... familiar...

"There. See? Here she is," Tommy says, then gives me a hard look.

"I don't need to be committed," I say, woodenly. "I'm not crazy."

"Lily," the man says, getting my attention, and I look into his eyes for the first time. There is an electric jolt of recognition that sears through me, nearly stopping my heart, but my brain just refuses to catch up. What's his name, what's his name? He's... a... doctor. Something certain and loud in the back of my mind tells me I can trust him, that I have trusted him before.

"You don't have her," he says to Tommy, "So let her go."

"Tell him you don't want to leave," Tommy hisses at me, and I look up at him, then back at the doctor. I'll take him over Tommy in a heartbeat. Déjà vu... seems like I've had that thought before... He holds his hand out to me, and I start forward, only to be brought up short by Tommy.

The man moves so fast, everything happens in the space of heartbeats. His face transforms with grim determination, and he reaches behind himself, whipping a staff down over his shoulder from out of nowhere; it whirls in his hand and around his arm, beginning to glow as he draws back his other arm, his free hand suddenly enveloped in bluish-white light. Turning his body with sudden force, he thrusts the staff hard toward us, his free hand pulling back like he's got a bowstring.

Tommy screams with rage, just a bare second before the ball of white light bursting from the end of the staff strikes him straight in the chest, lifting him up on his toes, like a puppet whose strings are attached to the breastbone. His hands open spasmodically, setting me free, and I stumble backward away from him.

My shocked mind can barely process this sudden development. This single act utterly defies the rationality of the world I live in. It's like I've been living in slow-motion, and didn't realize it until just now; like a cold bucket of water dumped over my head, I am suddenly sober, and I know where I am. Looking back at the man, I realize I know who I'm with, too. In the fourth  
heartbeat, Anders reaches behind him on both sides, like he's trying to gather something together, then pushes his hands toward Tommy, white smoke swirling around his fingers and leaving trails through the air.

From out of nowhere, rocks fly toward Tommy, swallowing him up, encasing him so that he is left standing in that unnatural position like a mannequin. Anders doesn't cease his movement, hands and staff weaving in a complicated dance as he directs his attention toward me. He shakes his hand, like he's trying to pick something up, then a sphere of light comes out of nowhere, bursting brightly around his head, leaving afterimages burned into my eyes, and a moment later I'm enveloped in a sphere of iridescent light.

Tommy begins to roar, a terrifyingly large sound that grows impossibly deeper and more frightening with every moment, as though he is growing taller, bigger, behind me as I rush toward Anders. With a quick sweep of his arm, he pushes me around to his back as I near, never taking his eyes off Tommy; peering over Anders' shoulder, I can see it's not Tommy at all. Standing there on the path, next to what now resembles nothing so much as a match-stick version of my shop, is a giant... _thing_, like a minotaur, like a crab, like the bastard love-child of a Geiger-Lovecraft nightmare, like none of these and all of them, easily fifteen feet tall, and the colour of a bad set of bruises.

The demon puts his hands together, a ball of light coalescing between them, flaming between his fingers as he throws the light down at his feet. It explodes upward, riming him in bright gold, and leaving him standing in a ring of fire; he lifts his head, looking at us with all those freaky, beady eyes, and _laughs_.

Anders pulls his staff back, preparing to cast again, as the demon begins its assault, nearly knocking us flat with a heavy stomp that shakes the ground.

"Get yourself a weapon!" he shouts over the roar, staff spinning in his hand again, throwing another bolt at the demon.

"How?"

"Concentrate!" he snaps, a puff of dust, light, and rocks flying from his fingertips and coalescing just in time to be boulder-sized, staggering the demon back a step in its advance.

Heartbeats, adrenaline, the constant roar and the shock of what is true conspire against concentration, but I focus on the idea that I've seen him cast before, in combat, and I was at his side, in armour, daggers in hand. I flex my hands, trying to remember the texture of the leather and the weight and the balance of them in my arms and shoulders.

I know what I'm about, here. Knives in hands, boots on feet, the strange rocket of magic when that helmet landed on my head for the first time. I can almost taste it.

What I manage to manifest is Zev's dagger, and my combat boots.

Whatever. I've got something sharp, and sure footing. Close enough, right? _Ares, guide my blade._

The demon rallies quickly and puts its head down for a charge. Anders and I bolt in opposite directions, and it tracks him, giving me time to circle. It doesn't perceive me as a threat, apparently... then again, maybe it just hasn't noticed that I'm sort of armed now. It charges Anders, knocking him flat, and crushing him with a strike from one massive fist.

An intense rush of white-hot fury in Anders' defence drives me forward at a sprint, straight toward the demon's legs, intent on sinking my blade deep into the back of its knee. Rearing back from Anders, it screams with rage and turns its upper body abruptly to stare down at me.

I'm frozen with shock and fear for a second as my primitive mammal brain screams and shits itself; here is the bogey-man, the monster under the bed, the thing lurking behind the mirror, and not only have I attracted its attention, but it's _hungry_. Still looking at me, it reaches down and then throws its arms up over its head, and I smell something burning.

Whirling, I find that we're surrounded by what appear to be moving piles of lava with arms, hotter than the hinges of Hades, and smelling like sulphur.

"Lily!" Anders shouts, grabbing my attention, and I see that there are more of them behind him. The demon sees me about to run for Anders and jumps, the concussion knocking me on my ass in front of the lava monsters, my head ringing like a gong as it strikes the ground. I flail, trying to scramble to my feet, but the monsters are quicker, reaching for me, the heat of their bodies close enough for me to be worried about my hair going up and the stench of sulphur choking me. In the next moment, a glyph springs into being under me, shoving all of them back and away from me, and giving me time enough to struggle to my feet.

The demon roars again as Anders stuns the lava monsters around him with a sudden ring of light that expands outward from him, knocking them back. It takes several unsuccessful swipes at him as he feeds it more rocks and bolts of light, and I have to admit that the man can _dance_. "Stay there!" he shouts to me, and I almost laugh, half-hysterical. Where else would I go? I flex my hand on the hilt of Zev's dagger, watching the milling figures around the edges of the glyph, waiting for it to expire so they can get to me.

The demon readies itself for another charge at Anders, and he ducks out to the side as it lowers its head, getting closer to me. The lava monsters have come back to their senses, and rush toward us, ringing us on all sides as Anders puts his back to mine. I can feel the sweaty heat of him and the way his breath comes in dragging heaves. A blue glow snaps outward from him momentarily, washing me in a wave of sheer relief, as the burns and bruises fade. I am always, entirely, most humbly grateful to him, but I hate it when he does that. It feels too personal and slightly vampiric, even though he's freely giving it, sees it as his job to do so.

Having bought itself some time, the demon cups its hands together again, summoning up some kind of green smoke that smells putrid when it drops to the ground, surrounding it in noxious fog. I notice that the light of the glyph is less bright than it was when he first cast it, and swallow nervously. I drop into a crouch just in time to not be clocked by Anders' staff as he swings it in an arc, spreading a line of ice that effectively freezes two thirds of the lava monsters and clears our backs.

I dart to the side as the glyph gives out, dagger swinging to intercept the clutching arms of the lava monster reaching for Anders' back. The heat searing the back of my hand as it connects and bites into the creature makes me miss my gauntlets. It's got a strange brittle quality to the outer skin, like charred wood. The green fog grows thicker and I realize that while I was trying to defend Anders' back, I missed the demon running up on us. It reminds me of its presence by swinging its fist into my head, and I kiss dirt, the green smoke invading my face and burning it from the inside.

I hear Anders screaming defiance, but his words are lost in a cacophony of noise. I'm seeing doubles and triples, trying to haul myself upright again before the demon tries to crush us.

Realizing I'm standing in the middle of a strange tempest, I look to Anders to find him surrounded by a swirling maelstrom of lightning, fire, smoke, snow, light, and earth, facing down the demon with what looks like everything he has left, and there are two lava monsters coming right up behind him, the last two left.

I charge them desperately, trying to remember to use the footwork and strikes that I have practised. My empty left hand curls around an imaginary hilt, following through with the sweeps and lunges in their proper times, for balance. I chop at them doggedly until they fall, while Anders keeps it at bay, but the tempest is ending and the demon hasn't fallen yet. I flex my hands on the grips of my daggers and I feel myself going up on my toes, dropping into better form. I can't be wasting energy. I need to focus, or we're both dead.

Anders has his back to me, his hair lank with the sweat of casting, and favouring his left leg, which means he's having to choose between healing and offense. The demon is badly wounded, slowed and dangerous. He begins to cast, and the demon puts down its head. He's not going to make it. Without conscious decision, my feet carry me forward at a sprint, past Anders, and directly into the path of the demon's charge.

I notice that it closes its eyes when it does this.

If I'm quick, impossibly quick, and perfectly accurate, I can sink my blades straight through its eyelids. What's more likely, though, is that I'll get run over like a penny on a railroad track, but if it buys Anders the two seconds he needs to take this thing down, it'll be worth it, right? Right.

Right.

I turn as its head gets nearer, aiming my blades and setting my feet, the slow-motion of adrenaline making it feel like I've got all the time in the world, even though I'm in slow-motion, too. I jump backward just as it reaches me, to add some of my own momentum to its charge, allowing me just enough space to sink my daggers into its face, ice riming the skin around the wound under my left hand. Everything is blurry, I can't tell whether I've actually got any of its eyes or not, but it roars and screams in pain just a moment before there is a tremendous thunderclap and a blinding white light. The demon's weight crushes me to the ground underneath it, knocking the wind from me and sending spots in my eyes. I try to breathe, but its head weighs a ton, and all I am able to do is whimper, before I lose myself to the blackness of oblivion.

The next thing I'm aware of is a thready, high-pitched keen, and I realize after a moment that it's me. I struggle upward toward the surface, swimming toward consciousness; I'm afraid to find out where I actually am, because this is the moment of truth. For a second, I really don't want to know. I think I know the answer, and I don't want to break my own heart, not again. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, tears leaking from the corners to roll down my temples.

"Lily?" A man's raspy voice whispers softly, and I turn my head slowly, dreading the source so much that I don't dare to look until I'm facing him.

"Anders?" My voice is thin and reedy, but steady. "You look like hell," I say, before I can stop myself, choking on a laugh. He smirks, but it's shaky. I feel a strong surge of sisterly love for him, and sit up partially, just enough to throw my arms around his neck and bury my face in his shoulder. Without meaning to, I burst into tears, pretty much immediately, and I can feel from the set of his shoulders that this shocks the hell out of him, but he barely misses a beat, his arms coming 'round to gather me in.

"Shhh..." he murmurs, a shaking hand laying gently against my hair, hesitantly stroking it. "It'll never touch you, Lily, never again."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

I hold the talisman in the palm of my hand. Such a small thing, so fragile-looking, no longer than my thumb and thin as a matchstick. Just a wafer of carved bone, but a complicated glyph on it, now cracked and blackened where Anders broke its hold on me. It had been sewn to the blanket.

"A beacon," Alistair says flatly, and Anders nods.

"For what?" I ask, turning it over in my hand.

"To call the demon," Anders says. "_That_ particular Pride demon. You were being offered up as a sacrifice."

I feel my mouth drop open in surprise as this comes as another blow. Everything happens so fast, so gods-damned fast! _Athena!_ "Wh- H- What?"

Alistair silently passes me the flask of whiskey again, and I take another swig. "Someone made a deal with this demon, to take you down in exchange for whatever it was they wanted." I pass the flask to Anders, and he takes another drink, as well. I don't miss how his hands shake as he passes it back to me.

"It was a Pride demon?"

Anders' eyes, though tired, are still piercing enough to make what he says next strike me hard through the stomach. "It stole your pride, didn't it? Fed off it like a parasite."

The look that Anders and I share in that moment tells me that he knows _exactly_ who the demon was pretending to be, and my cheeks heat with shame. "It... It had me convinced that I was entirely mad, that all my life here was so much insane delusion."

Anders sighs. "Don't beat yourself up over it," he says, running his hands through his unbound hair. "Pride demons are nasty, and smart. Not like the sloth you met in Kinloch - they're generally too lazy, and it's easier to see through their dreams. Desire isn't so hard either, if you're the sort who tends to question when things seem to be going well. Someone knew enough to be able to say what you would be weakest against, I think."

I close my eyes and swallow the sick feeling brewing in my stomach. "Enzo, of course."

Alistair restlessly thumps his fist backward against the stone of the wall behind him, angry and impatient. "If I ever see him alive, I'll be the last thing he sees," he growls.

"But... If that's the case... Why would the Crows send a _demon_ after me? How would they even manage it?"

Anders snorts. "I'm not the only mage in Thedas who owes no allegiance to the Chantry. And... if you were being offered to it, then it meant to ride you. Did it ask you for anything?"

My brow furrows. "It said... I needed to trust it, that... it could give me everything I wanted, if I just... Oh gods, if I just 'let it in'. I thought-" I drop the talisman on Alistair's desk and press the heel of my hand to the suddenly aching point between my eyes. "And you said, 'don't compromise', but I had no idea what was real and what wasn't-" I blink, then laugh, startling them both, and Alistair looks at me like maybe I _have_ gone a little nuts. I shake my head, waving a hand, until I can get a grip. I probably am a little hysterical. Eventually I catch my breath. "It pretty much blocked itself by the approach it took. Where I come from, being sent to the madhouse is called 'being committed'. He was trying to get me to say I wanted to stay with him, but I was more worried about the asylum, so those were the words I used. I was refusing him and I didn't even know it."

"Asylum?" Alistair echoes, and I laugh again, mirthlessly.

"It's a fairly ironic term, unfortunately, though it isn't meant to be." I sigh heavily, eyes drawn back to the broken glyph. "It wanted me trapped in a prison of my own making, to believe that I could never escape. The moment that happened, I would have been under its thrall." I shiver, knowing how close I came.

"I wonder what it meant to do," Anders says, face dark.

"Walking around looking like me? I shudder to think." I take another slug off the bottle and pass it back to Alistair before I give in to the temptation to chug the whole thing. I rub my face with both hands, then put my head down on them propping my elbows on my knees. "Fuckin' hell, I'm tired," I mumble, and the men snort. "Is it even safe to sleep? I can't believe I'm asking this, because I want to say I'll just never sleep again, but the fact is, the body is much weaker than my willpower at the moment. I either need a shit-ton of coffee or a safe place to sleep."

Anders sighs, and I can hear him stretching by the way his joints pop. "The demon's dead and the beacon destroyed," he says. "You should be safe enough for now. We'll need to have a very long talk, however."

I look up and blink, taking in the grim faces of the men looking at me. "What? About what? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"It had to ask you permission," Alistair says, as though this explains everything, and I shake my head, mystified.

They exchange glances, then Anders says, "A demon can just take over any person it likes. There's nothing to stop them, you see."

"That's why Sofia Dryden was just an empty shell," Alistair says.

"But a mage, on the other hand... We have to agree."

"So this brings us back around to the same old question: what are you not telling us, Lily?" Alistair asks, weary.

I stare at him, completely at a loss, in shock. "I'm not a mage!" I blurt. "Is that what you think? That I'm a closet mage? Are you serious? There's no way!"

Anders looks at Alistair and arches an eyebrow; Alistair looks sceptical. "You mean to tell me you don't know?"

"Alistair, I haven't got a single fucking clue what you're on about, honestly. I'm not a mage."

Anders studies me critically. "I think you are, but you're like a kitten. You haven't got the faintest idea what your claws are for, and couldn't produce a hiss to save your life."

My eyebrows draw together. "Why does that feel like it should be an insult?"

"I'm not quite sure _what_ to think of it," he says, and shakes his head. "There's a piece of you that's open to the Fade."

"Could it be a side-effect of my connection with Zev?"

"Possibly. There's not exactly a lot of research into the area, considering that most people think it to just be fireside tales."

I chew my lip, trying to think, but my brain is so fogged from the medicine not having worn off yet and from the lack of rest, that I just can't. "I have to sleep," I moan, dreading it. Ponka lifts his head and puts it on my thigh. "Oh gods, I don't want to sleep," I whisper; Ponka whines and licks my face.

"I'll stay with you," Anders says, standing up. The look that flickers across Alistair's face makes my heart hurt, but I do my best to ignore it. "Easier to help if I'm right there, anyway, in case something else goes wrong," he adds. I'm just too tired to argue.

"Right. That makes sense." I drag myself upright. "Look... wake me again if anything happens, if Lels gets back..."

"Not likely," Alistair says. "You need the sleep."

I look at him, suddenly not feeling like it's safe to sleep at all. "No, what if it's something that has to be acted on right away?"

He rubs his lower lip, considering. "Good point. How about this: I'll ask Leliana if it's pressing, and if she says 'yes', then we'll come and wake you."

I smile, relaxing. "Fair enough. Thank you."

Back in our bedroom, I find that the maids have stripped the bed to bare mattress, with sheets, blankets, and pillows piled on the trunk at its foot. I notice that the scarves on the bedposts are still in place, and Anders arches an eyebrow at me, making me blush scarlet. Normally, they're hidden by the pillows and tucked under the sheets. I clear my throat and pick up a sheet. Anders helps me make the bed, which does a great deal toward reassuring me that there's nothing in it, this time.

Bed duly fixed, we stand on opposite sides from each other, awkwardly. "Ah hell," I mutter, and just unbuckle my belt, letting my breeches fall to the floor. The tunic covers my ass. Close enough.

Anders waits until I'm laying down and then sits on top of the blankets, apparently meaning to prop himself up against the wall. I look up at him, arching an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

He looks down at me. "What?"

"You're going to sleep sitting up. After all that crap in the Fade? And don't think I didn't see your hands shaking."

He pauses, giving me the strangest look, cocking his head, and then he says, "What are you suggesting?"

I huff, a little exasperated puff of air. "I'm suggesting you lay down and sleep." He's still looking at me with that queer expression and I shake my head. "Look, I'm not trying to be weird. You're exhausted, I'm exhausted, the bed is big enough for two people, and it's ridiculous to expect you to sleep sitting up or on the floor. Just lay down." Resolutely, I turn over, giving him my back. There is silence for a moment, and then he sighs.

"If I were going to make a move on another man's wife, it wouldn't be Zevran's," he says, but the bed shifts as he seems to be shrugging out of his robe.

"Gee, thanks," I retort, joking.

He chuckles. "It's not for your lack of appeal, dear Lily, but for my love of living. He seems to be slightly protective of you."

Over by the door, Ponka barks happily, and I laugh. "Maybe a little. Can't imagine why," I say, feeling the blankets shift, and then there is a solid warmth of body in the other half of the bed. It's quiet for a while, and I feel the heavy torpor of sleep coming on, but my frightened brain still skitters about frantically, fighting it whenever it draws near. At last I can take no more of it. "Anders?" I whisper.

"Hmm?"

"Can... Can I... Oh gods, I can't believe I'm asking you this, but can I curl up against your back?" I can feel my face hot with blushing, and I'm glad of the darkness.

After a pause, he answers me, his reply drawn out warily. "Why do you ask?"

"Gods, please don't think less of me for this. I've had so many shocks in one day that I feel like I'm about to just shatter apart. The first time today that I felt even the slightest bit safe was just for a moment, when you showed up and shoved me behind you. I just thought... If I can curl up behind you, maybe I can take that with me when I fall asleep, and I won't have another nightmare," I confess, all in a rush, and there is a silence again afterwards.

"Come on then," he says quietly, reaching out, and takes my hand. He draws it up to his shoulder as he turns over, and I pull my knees up, curling in a ball behind him. Resting my head between his shoulder blades, the strength I can feel in him, despite his exhaustion, is a comfort to me. I trust him, completely. I'm about as safe as possible. Right? Right.

Anders' shaking fingers cover mine, where they curl over the top of his shoulder. I have to admit, despite the terrifying and awesome powers that my friends command, we're all fragile creatures. "Thank you," I whisper.

"For what?"

"Everything. Being here. Being my friend. Thank you," I say, tearing up again, and try to swallow it back, but it's just been too much today. I'm at my limit. I end up crying on him again, but it doesn't last long, because I can't stay awake anymore.

The last thing I'm aware of is Anders threading his fingers between mine, and the soft whisper of his voice. "I'm glad to be among those you trust. Sleep. I'm here."


	21. Fatal Fete

_Chapter 21: Man Down_

The brightness of morning finds me gritty-eyed and cranky, sitting in the Wardens' hall, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. Leliana sits across from me, with Anders and Alistair to either side, and Ponka beneath my chair. Facing the door with my back to the wall, I'm about as guarded as possible. The murmur of our conversation is largely drowned out by the general clamour of the other Wardens around us. Some are eating breakfast, ready to greet the day, others are stealing a last bite before they find their beds.

"Do you want me to smite them for you?" Alistair asks around a mouthful of bread, and I blink, looking at him, totally confused.

"What?"

"The melons. Do you want me to smite them for you? They must have done something to personally offend you. I won't stand for an insubordinate breakfast." He says this, so deadpan and with an off-handed, matter-of-fact tone, that it takes a moment for my brain to catch up.

I've been glaring holes in the melon plate.

I rub my forehead, chagrined into a smile, despite myself. "I'm feeling uncommonly bitchy this morning," I say with mock cheerfulness, making Alistair blink, Anders laugh, and Leliana cough, choking on her coffee.

The Wardens approach our end of the table intermittently, speaking with Alistair about one thing or another, checking in or double-checking orders, making quick status reports and such. I pay them no mind, simply slogging through some food because it's necessary, until I hear one of them say "...Enzo? He did not show at post last night. It is not like him to be late. I fear something has happened to him." What he leaves unsaid is what everyone takes for granted: the Crows probably got him. It's kinda funny that he's right, but not in the way he thinks.

Alistair blinks, then shrugs. "I haven't seen him either - not since yesterday afternoon - but I've been busy." He sits back, frowning, looking for all the world like he's carefully considering what to do, but I'm fairly certain he decided what he was going to say a long time ago. I've caught him having hypothetical conversations and arguments with himself a few times, late at night. I promised him I'd never tell, if he promised not to tell that I do it, too. "It's not like him to miss a shift without telling anyone, either," he says, slowly. "We need to know what's keeping him, and the sooner the better, so get Angelo and whoever else you pick - no more than two - and go find out. The last place I saw him was in the training yard, yesterday afternoon, about two hours after I got back. He walked out the south door."

"Ser." The Warden crosses his arms over his chest and bows his head briefly before retreating.

I swallow. The ratcheting continues; I can't even see the top of this hill. Gods-damned roller coasters. I never expected my _life_ to turn into one.

_Even in the midst of battle, there is sometimes nothing left to do. In that case, you simply breathe, and marvel at the fact that you have survived, again._

Oh, Zev. Where are you?

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The door opens, letting in a rush of cold air and chill rain, followed by my husband, catching me as I stare at the cursor, blinking at me accusingly for the last half hour from the page of my current document. I sigh, stuck again, and look up at him as he leans down to kiss me, the damp strands of his hair falling over his shoulder and sticking to my face. "Ah, _cara_," he murmurs as he pulls away, glancing over at the computer screen. "Writing again, I see," he comments, voice neutral.

"Yep. Stuck right now though."

"Oh?" He arches an eyebrow at me as he hangs up his coat. "What is it?"

Even though he takes a dim view of my writing, considering what has happened to us, he encourages me, and even tends to help me out from time to time, because he knows I enjoy it. Besides, if I'm writing about _us_, then it's got to be fiction, right? Should be safe. I hope. "Oh... We're up to our ears in politics and intrigue. I'm about to go to Lothrein's estate, but first I have to figure out what you've been up to, so I know where you'll be when I get there."

"Hmmm... It is known that Enzo is traitor, yes?"

"Yep. I figure you had him killed, if you didn't do it yourself."

He shakes his head, surprising me. "No... I do believe I would want him alive. Once a man is dead, no more use can be made of him," he says, leaning down to unlace his boots. "And he can no longer suffer," he adds, giving me a chill. "Where is our little Chickpea?"

"Sleeping off a milk-drunk," I say, smiling, and he nods.

"And your back? Better?"

I hold up my hand, waving it back and forth in a 'so-so' gesture. "Ehh. Not so bad. The stabbing pain hasn't come back." Gods bless my husband and his absolutely fucking _magical_ hands. Thanks to him, there hasn't been a single day where I've had to crawl because of my back, not since he got here.

"Ah, good. This, I am glad to hear. So, your story: what else gives you trouble?" he asks, peeling off his wet socks, and I make a mental note to get him a new pair of boots.

"Uhm... well, I need a passage where I get together with Leliana to find out what she knows and decide what to do, and... Then I have to meet someone in the grotto, but I don't know who is going to be there."

Zev shrugs, leaning back against the wall, looking at me. "Cesar. No one else could be trusted at that moment, and sending Ignacio would have too many unwelcome eyes upon you. Skip the planning meeting," he suggests, waving a hand. "It will consume much time, and do little to advance the story, in the end." I delete a fairly large chunk of text and he gives me a wry smile. "Ah, so I am not yet returned, yes? Tch. There is your problem: not enough Zevran."

I giggle, looking up at him as he comes to stand near me, stroking my hair. I can't help but agree. "But I can't just... skip ahead like that."

"Hmm... and why not?" He leans down to purr in my ear, "Think on it, _cara_, how _hungry_ my hands would be, after such fear and aching for you, after such uncertainty, hmm?" His hands slide down my shoulders, making me shiver and my nipples pucker, immediately soaking the pads on the inside of my bra, despite how our Garbanzo just ate less than an hour ago. The press of his lips to the side of my neck has me melting into his arms, my eyes slipping closed as his familiar weight and warmth wrap me up in solid safety. "If you worry so about how to continue the story," he whispers, his hands splaying across my stomach, "Simply write from another perspective. Mine, perhaps. Show them what I have been up to, until you can put yourself back in my arms, hmm? And then you can get to the sex," he says, a note of humour in his voice as his hands travel over my hips and down my thighs.

"But it's supposed to be from my point of view... it has been, the whole time." I'm losing my train of thought as his lips nibble softly along the edge of my ear.

"Hmm-no, not true, _cara_; there was the passage you had me write, toward the beginning, yes? While you were healing, after being crushed?"

"Ohhh yeahhh..." I wrap my arm around his shoulders as he slips his hands underneath me, lifting me out of my chair, clearly intent on another subject entirely. "I don't suppose I can convince you to write another passage...? I'm _so_ bad at the intrigue."

He pauses, cradling me against his chest while I look up at him, then sighs softly and rolls his eyes dramatically. "_Sì, cara,_ I will write a piece for you," he says, his tone saying 'long-suffering', but his eyes sparking with humour.

"And so now, _we'll_ get straight to the sex, too, right?" I ask, giggling, and he gives me that knowing, sexy smile that always stops my heart, carrying me toward the bedroom.

"Oh yes, I do like this plan. Is that not why you began writing about me in the first place?"

He's joking, but I shake my head, interrupting my kissing his neck momentarily to press my lips to his ear, whispering, "No, my love, I started writing about you, and came to your bed, because I love you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I began to think that before you ever touched me." I look up at him seriously as he lays me on the bed, and grab his hands as he moves to pull away. He looks at me with eyes drowning deep, and I wonder how it is that he doesn't know this, even after all this time. With him, I've learned that many of his small jokes actually belie some carefully hidden insecurity. He's good at it; I don't think anyone but me notices. "That Yule, you know what I wished for, more than anything else?"

He shakes his head, turning my hand over in his so he can press a soft kiss to my palm, still looking at me, and I sigh with desire, fingers curling over his cheek.

"I wished that I could keep you, that I'd never lose you. I've been thinking that every day, since the moment we first met. The sex is... umf..." I trail off, incoherent, as there is no adequate word to describe how amazing he is, but I know he can see the truth of it in my eyes, how much I desire him, whenever I look at him. The smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes shows me. "Oh, my love, but that's not why I wrote. I wrote so I could be with you. And that, more than anything, is what I want. Then, now, always."

"Hmm... 'Always', you say," he murmurs, crawling onto the bed to hover over me, not quite touching, and exaggerates an aggrieved face. "Tch. Terrible fate for a man, to have a wife so constant as you, _cara_," he says, making me giggle, and then cuts me off as his mouth covers mine. I moan and arch wantonly, having long since abandoned any semblance of shyness when it comes to him.

As he settles his weight atop me and rolls his hips against mine, stealing my breath, I have to admit, he's right about one thing: sometimes it _is_ best to just skip straight to the sex.

After all, I've learned that when it comes to sex, he's always, _always_ right.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.  
_  
Scaling the wall, pulling the shadows around me and sinking into the darkness, silencing my footfalls and spiriting through alleyways unseen, these are the easy things. No, it is tearing myself away from _her_, my Lily, that is the most difficult part. My _wife_. How that word sears itself into my tongue. Ah, but there is no doubt, she is mine; her every motion, every look, every breath proclaims it. The warmth of her lips lingers on mine, my palms itch to trace the curves I can never seem to know well enough, and for a moment, I must bite back the urge to turn, to go to her again, to take her quickly against the wall, to drink my name from her lips as she moans for me..._

Braska. I must turn my mind to other affairs.

Of all those I could choose, Lothrein, I do believe, will be the most satisfying. I determined, long ago, that he would be my first target. I had thought my rancor for the man long since faded, but seeing his face on the dock upon our arrival brought everything back to me with galling and vivid detail. I have not forgotten, and I have not forgiven. It was he who first purchased me for the Crows, he who first broke me to their yoke, and by his hand was I shaped into the cold-blooded killer I can still be. I must be. It is fitting that I shall begin here. He is powerful among the Masters, to be sure, and an old, established name. To topple him from his seat will cause fear and anarchy; at least two thirds of the current Masters are his spawn in one way or another. I will remove the foundation of this fortress that the Hand of the Crows has made, one stone at a time.

On the wings of the night, I could ghost over the wall of the estate; he still has the same holes in his defences. Not by lax security, but as a way of making sure that he knows where to watch. He will not see me, however, for the guard at the wall is easily disabled by a poisoned dart from the darkness. The guard on the house, however, will have noted the slump of the man on the wall, so while that is being investigated, I slip around the back of the house and enter through the common kitchen gate.

Once inside the walls, I step back into the shadows, just in time to keep the unwelcome eyes of two passing servants from snagging on my presence. Skirting the wall, I make my way to the garden, where I may lose myself amongst the plants, breaking up my silhouette with the screen of foliage, and wait for my opportunity to stalk closer to my goal: the wall of Lothrein's study. From here is all business conducted, and I discovered, as a very young Crow, that the best way to be the director of one's own fate is to watch, and listen. To that end, I spent a great deal of time searching out the best places in which to hide myself, where the usual guard does not walk, or does not look, where one would assume there is simply not enough space to hide a body.

I know all of these places well.

For instance, there is a balcony on the second floor, just down from the window in question. Scaling the wall to get to it is a simple affair. It attaches to the side of the house with a lip of masonry that goes all the way around the outside of the second floor. On the side of the house, between the balcony and the window, stands the kitchen chimney. Usually too hot to touch, I learnt long ago that if I could simply stand the heat for a few precious moments, I could slip past it to the other side and perch on the narrow ledge of stone there, out of view of most, and in perfect placement to hear _all that occurs, so long as I may be content to balance on my toes with my hands flat to a wall behind me. My hands are no longer so used to the heat of the stone as they once were, so I must entrust my fate to my climbing gloves. They do not insulate well; my hands are well roasted by the time I reach the other side, but the sacrifice is worth it, for what I discover._

Lothrein, not the most subtle nor eloquent of creatures when angered, paces and rants, laying the responsibility for the destruction of Maso's cell and the continued existence of myself and my Lily directly at someone's feet, but he is quick to defend himself.

"I could not know that she would have the wherewithal to mount such an attack, Master. She never showed any signs of such capabilities, and when we made our move, according the the Warden healer Anders, she should still have been two weeks from any such activity. She was creeping around the compound like a kitten and randomly dropping unconscious in the hallway."

Enzo. Oh, Ignacio, are you in on this, or simply as double-crossed as me? The layers pile deeper... The surge of anger I feel in this moment leaves me cold and empty.

"She is amongst her own people! How could you not have seen it?" Lothrein demands, and I hear Enzo sigh.

"All the signs suggested a deep and distrustful rift between herself and the Warden Commander, to the point that I believed it unlikely he would assist her, as he also despises the renegade." Oh, 'the renegade', is it? I like that.

"Tell me why I should let you live, you incompetent fool," Lothrein hisses, and I feel just a touch of sympathy for the other man, having heard such words, myself. Here is the man, after all, who laughed in the face of my pathetic lie over Rinna. But that sympathy is as a snowflake on the tongue, for it is this treacherous boot-lick who has nearly laid us low.

"I have further information on both of them, Master," comes the prompt reply, a sure bait for the hook that will allow him to catch his own life out of the jaws of death tonight.

"Spill it then, and be quick," Lothrein snaps, "My patience wears thin."

"Lily is mortal, Master. Entirely mortal. She does not carry the Taint, and so is not a Warden, either. The Hero of Ferelden is no more; she is no elf, but an entirely human, entirely vulnerable woman, come from someplace other. Though she continues to claim Ferelden as her homeland, she has never actually set foot upon it. It is now known to us, clearly, that the Wardens are yet behind her, even still. As for him, I believe he will make moves so he may purchase the contract on himself and his woman."

The pregnant pause speaks volumes.

"Surely he does not act alone."

"They use me as messenger to Ignacio. Everyone is playing their hands close, and they speak in thick code. Perhaps if you allow me to live this night, I may return and find out more." He is positively obsequious, his tone grating on my patience, now worn thin.

There is a long silence from Lothrein, as he resumes his seat. The chair creaks, and I hear the sound of glass upon glass, liquid being poured, another pause. When finally he speaks, his words are bitten off as though they pain him to say. "Go back to the compound and await further _instruction. You are to watch and listen, nothing more. I will send for you when I wish another report."_

"Your wish, Master," Enzo replies quickly, and then the sound of the door. Oh, you watch and listen, hmm? This will be swiftly remedied. First, to escape this place unseen, and then, to Ignacio. I must see his face when I tell him this news.

As he does not yet know that I am aware of his betrayal, some use may still be made of Enzo.

Just as I am thinking perhaps it is wisest if I climb down the wall from here, rather than slip around the chimney again, there is a knock at Lothrein's door, and I pause when I hear Lothrein bid them enter.

"Ah, Gino, what news?"

The new man's voice is low and full of the grating of stone on stone, and I recognize Lothrein's favourite sycophant, from when I was yet an apprentice. "All the servants are informed of the plan for the gala, Master." Oh, a party? Most convenient. I must move quickly. But one moment more...

"Ah, good. You will oversee the arrival of the wine yourself. I wish there to be no mistakes this time."

"Yes, Master. The Mistress has been advised that her services will be needed if anything should go awry." I shiver, in spite of my long years of hardening; the lash of the Mistress is to be feared, for she is only slightly kinder than being in the hands of Maso's cell. I should very much like to see her handed over to my Lily.  
  
.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:  
_  
"Good evening."_

To his credit, he does not jump, though I can tell that he did not hear me, nor suspect my presence, as he turns around to look at me, and I close the window behind me with a smile. "Ah, my friend, I did not expect to see you this night." Ignacio's study, though small, is warm, and packed to the rafters with books on every subject. The window, situated high up on the wall of a fairly large estate, is not easy to access, so his surprise is more than understandable.

"Yes, I realize. I would have sent word, however there has been an extreme upset in the balance of our current interests, and I did not feel that anything less than an immediate presence would do."

That gets his attention, and his eyes narrow. "Oh? What has come?"

"Everything has been compromised at the hands of our messenger," I state flatly, the information stale and numb in my mouth. There: his eyes give him away. He is just as surprised as I. This is good, for at the moment I simply have not the stomach to be fighting this war on so many fronts. To begin again with all odds against me is a soul-wearying prospect, and I must wonder now if I am going dangerously soft. Oh, my Lily, she is a double-edged knife. "I must act upon the knowledge and move to protect."

He stares at me a moment, incredulous. "Now? We are not prepared for such a thing!"

"Yes, I am aware. Yet, we have two days. I believe the imminent affair must be the time, as they will _not expect us to be aware of their knowledge. Some use may yet be made of the messenger, as none are the wiser for the moment, yes? What of the contacts you intended to make? Did anything bear fruit?" I must resist the temptation to be in motion, to fidget and pluck at things. So much time amongst the Wardens has given me bad habits._

Ignacio sits back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. "Yes, half a dozen for certain... more perhaps. There are some who might be persuaded simply by the fact that you intend to move immediately."

Treacherous allies, all. "What of the paperwork? Has the bid been settled upon anyone?"

At Ignacio's nod, I believe I know the answer as to whom, but I must confirm. "Oh? Is it fortunate that we shall be paying him a visit, then? Or is it someone else?"

"No, you guess correctly. I hear it was dearly won, as well."

I feel my eyebrow go up and curse myself for it. I must better master my face, remember my training. "Oh? I thought none would touch it."

Ignacio shakes his head. "As did I, however the bidding became fierce between two."

"Alas, I was unable to procure the contract," a new voice says from the hallway, and it is one I know well.

"Ah, my good friend - I have not seen you in a lifetime, it seems," I say, looking him up and down. Salvail is a study in practiced ease, hardly changed from the last time I saw him.

He nods, leaning against the door frame and crossing his arms over his chest, mirroring Ignacio, perhaps unconsciously. Interesting... "I could hardly resist the temptation. Also, I did not appreciate the idea of a contract on you being in those _hands, of all who could own it." His mouth twists in distaste, and I sympathise. Lothrein was not kind to either of us, but he particularly enjoyed torturing Salvail. He was young, and dark, and had 'pretty eyes'. No matter that he vastly preferred the company of women. "So, I hear that you are making your move."_

I nod, now knowing how long he has been standing there, and I believe I have also divined the identity of the listener in the alcove at my last meeting with Ignacio. "I have run out of time," I say simply, and shrug.

"Getting in will be easy," he says, moving further into the room, entirely at home, and I wonder if Salvail still has the same tastes as I watch Ignacio track him. "Getting out will be more difficult."

"I wish to avoid as much bloodshed as possible. Making a mess will hardly bring support."

Salvail rubs the side of his neck as he thinks, a nervous tic he has never got rid of. "Mmmh. So you say, but a little fear goes a long way, yes?"

"Yes, however fear also breeds distrust, in which case there are always daggers pointed at your back."

Salvail shrugs. "No matter which way you leap, that will be the case, in this instance, yes? Far better to deal in absolutes. If you show that retribution is both swift and final, this is a clear message."  
_  
"How many graves do you intend to fill?" Ignacio asks, and this gives me pause, for it is a very good question._

"At least one... what are the current odds?"

"Amongst the thirteen in question, seven to six, against. The fifteen are five and ten, for. The other thirteen are twelve and one, against - the one surprised me, but then again, has always been rogue in one way or another, and may have gone with the opposing side for obstinacy's sake, or as part of a larger scheme. I do not believe he is an ally, but I also believe he would eat his coin before reneging on a bet such as this. Should you come out the victor, he will claim he knew it would be so, all along, and should you not, will have hedged enough to make it look as though it was his intent to skew the game in his favour. So with the six abstaining, the odds are twenty-four to seventeen, against. I may be able to better that, but not by more than two or three."

"I do believe I have an idea. It is well that we have two days to prepare, for we will need to send in some people tomorrow to make arrangements. Are we quite alone? For if this is overheard, it will go the worse for all of us."

Ignacio and Salvail smile, and I know they will be true allies, at least for the time being. Later? Who knows. But for now... I must focus on the game at hand, and play with the pieces already in my possession.  
  
.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"Ah, my lady Cassia, how wonderful to see you." Lothrein oozes charm like an oil slick, and I paste a pleasant smile on my face, playing coy and batting my lashes at him. "I was beginning to fear that I would not see you at all before you returned home."

"Ah, you flatter me, ser. But you spoke so kindly on the docks, to extend an offer of hospitality with only having just laid eyes on me. I couldn't simply leave and not honour the favour of such an invitation. Truly, you have a lovely home. Oh, but where are my manners? I have brought a gift." I hold up the parcel in my hands, a cloth-wrapped, leather-bound copy of Dane and the Werewolf, a traditional Ferelden tale, something along the lines of The Prince and the Pauper, only much darker. As he turns it over, looking at it curiously, I smile. "I was advised that your lady wife enjoys books, so I hoped perhaps a tale from my homeland would suit."

He looks at me, jovial and relaxed on the surface, but his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, and I know he's studying me. I can see the gears clicking in his head. "Just so," he says, nodding. "It is a most kind gift; I am sure she will appreciate it."

"While it was not my intention to impose myself upon your event, I am grateful for the opportunity to meet so many all at once. Tell me, what is the occasion tonight?"

"Ah, dear lady, tonight you find yourself amongst the finest flower of Antivan society, gathered in honour of Patrizio Quattrocchi's daughter Benedetta, who has reached the quite marriageable age of fifteen." He leans close, looking across the room, so that I may follow his line of gaze to a man who looks kind of like he might be a nice guy, laughing with his companion as they elbow each other, surrounded by a group of other men and women who apparently share the jest.

"So, this is her birthday party?" I ask, looking around with furrowed brow, because I definitely don't see a lot of teenagers in attendance.

He chuckles. "No, my dear, this is the evening in which the other families will negotiate with him for courtship rights." He begins to point out a few illustrious figures, nobility, craftsmen, merchants. "...Giovanni Sallazzo, there, you see him pointedly ignoring Antonin Fiorini, who looks like he may have been overindulging in lemons." He laughs at this, and I have to rack my brain as the names ring bells from the swirl of information Leliana gave me today. Ah, I've got it: they're Antivan textile artists, and bitter rivals.

I laugh softly in appreciation. "Ah, I do prefer Sallazzo velvets, it is true, though Fiorini carries the finest silks." I suspect this was a test, but the way he looks at me, slightly more appraising, slightly more respect, tells me that I have passed, so far. "I'm liking the new line coming out of Vitanza lately, however. They seem to have much improved; I wonder if they have new weavers."

"Hmm, indeed they do, my lady. It is a fortuitous time to be making new trade agreements, yes? Ah, but to that end, I find I must part your company for a short while." Catching my hand, he presses a kiss to the knuckles, and I remember the last time Zev had me pressed against the wall to make myself blush. "I have arranged for you to be seated at the head table tonight, so I do hope you will join me presently. Until then, and with regrets, fair lady." He gives me this polite little half-bow, releasing my hand, and I smile prettily for him, relieved when he walks away, trying not to show that I am revolted enough to almost vomit. I retreat to the edge of the room so I can put my back to a wall, on tenterhooks, waiting for the violence to break out at any moment. I hate this shit... I hate parties. I hate politics. Oh gods, protect me.

I can see the servants already laying the trivets on the sideboard, ready to hold the serving plates that will shortly be arriving, and take a deep breath. Everything's going to be okay. Nothing's happening, and I have no idea why I'm here. I smile politely and chitchat with some minor politician's wife, praising the decor of the house and commiserating over the price of coffee lately, though I really can't say it's particularly expensive, honestly. It's about eight bucks a pound for good beans, at home, and she's complaining about how many coppers she has to shell out. Lady, talk to me when everything costs gold. But no, I can't say that, so I simply smile and nod, which is what I seem to be doing a lot of tonight.

Assuming we make it that far, the part I'm really worried about is the dance.

I'm light on my feet now, so maybe it won't be so bad, but I've never done well at these things. I hate parties. I hate crowds. Oh gods, but I have to get used to this, because if Zev is going to be at the top, this kind of thing is going to be happening to me all the time. And I won't be able to skip it, because I'm his wife. _Wife_. Oh gods. Oh, but I need to be paying attention, because now I've missed what she said.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said you seem a bit distracted," she replies, and laughs sweetly.

I smile ruefully and duck my head, then lean in conspiratorially. "It's these pointy Orlesian shoes; they pinch my toes abominably. I wish I'd worn something more sensible! The dance is going to be agony." This is a total lie, but it's as good of an excuse as any. It makes her laugh, which is a good sign, and the talk turns to fashion, giving me another chance to exercise my knowledge of Thedosian fabrics. I'm not at all sure if that's the proper term for people who live here, but whatever. I just won't say it out loud. Right? Right. Close enough.

All my grandmother's lessons in etiquette float through my mind as I mingle with the party guests, smiling so much my face feels like it might crack.

_Stand up straight, don't fidget, drop your eyes demurely when introduced to a man, don't forget to curtsy if he's of a higher rank than you, answer all catty comments with a smile and a laugh, keep the moral high ground in all conversations, and for heaven's sake, don't touch your face!_

With dinner comes a bit of breathing room, as we must now all be seated. I am relieved to see that the place settings are familiar: wine glass, water glass, salad plate, soup bowl, dinner plate, dessert plate, salad fork, dinner fork, dessert fork, and oh no, seafood fork, soup spoon, dessert spoon, butter knife, meat knife, cheese knife. Good grief. At least I know what all of this is for.

_When it comes to meals of many courses, the wisest thing to do is to eat a normal portion of salad, a very small portion of soup, and no more than three bites of anything further. It may not seem like much, but those three bites add up when there are twelve courses to get through, and you mustn't appear ungrateful or boorish._

And oh gods, the food. I could eat like this forever. Seafood stuffed raviolis in some kind of white wine sauce. Some kind of cured meat rolled around a strange fruity cheese that simply _bursts_ on my tongue. Stuffed artichoke hearts, oh gods. I want four of them. I only take one, but the man at my side, some merchant whose name I've already forgotten, laughs softly when he sees me eye them. Risotto with asparagus and mushrooms in it. Some kind of seafood chowder. Oh gods, I'm in heaven.

Dinner banter is light and urbane, and since it's mostly in Italian, I get to ignore it and focus on eating, which is wonderful, because I haven't eaten since breakfast. _One bite at a time, darling. We are not pigs at a trough. Sit up straight._ Too much going on, what with Leliana dressing me and giving me a crash-course in textiles, and then meeting with Cesare at the grotto in the park. All he did was give me a necklace. Not even a word, just put it on me and left. I have no idea what it was about, but... it's a pretty thing, a piece of cloudy, pale blue stone surrounded by sparkling darker blue pieces, all set in silver and suspended from a pretty twisted chain. I wonder if it's magical, or if Zev just wanted me to have it. There's got to be a reason for it, surely.

Dinner passes fairly uneventfully, though Lothrein makes a point of having me come sit with him during the dessert course, so that he can praise the pastries, but I only have eyes for the cannoli. This does not escape his notice, and he raises his eyebrows. "You have had the dish before, then?" he asks, indicating for a servant to give me a second one as my mouth waters.

Oh shit, think fast. "Oh, oh yes. There was a lady from Antiva at Castle Redcliffe, many years ago now, and she made these once, for a feast." I glance at him from the corner of my eye, relieved to see that he simply picks his up, as well, so at least I won't look barbaric. They're small, about the size of your average egg roll, but the cream inside is like a cloud. I cannot help the hum of yummy that escapes my lips, and Lothrein chuckles at me. I blush, not having to fake it this time.

"Truly, that is the best compliment a cook could hope for," he says, and I smile, sincere. "Tell me, how did you find the meal?" I rave for a minute about how wonderful everything was, how much I enjoyed the little shrimp in some kind of tomato cream sauce, and the whatever-it-was that they did to the eggplant, among other things, and he positively beams at the praise. I'm not sure why - maybe it's just nice to hear from someone who isn't so used to eating like this. "Ah, so charming you are, my Lady Cassia. Truly, it is a pleasure to have your company this evening. Will you do me the honour of a dance?" he asks, picking up my hand again and pressing his lips to the knuckles, and maybe I've had just a little too much wine, because I don't have to fake the blush this time.

Shit.

"Uh- Of course, signore; it would be my pleasure, ser." What am I gonna say - no? The musicians strike up the first chords, and everyone gathers in the ballroom. Lothrein takes the first dance with his wife, which I guess is only proper, and it's a relief to see that it's a simple waltz. Seems that some things are universal. There's some kind of complicated quadrille thing after that, and I get hopelessly turned around as I'm passed from one hand to another, much the same as all the other women in the room, but they manage to make it look graceful and natural. I'm just trying not to trip over my skirt. But the men I dance with are competent and more than happy, for the most part, to lead, so I manage to make it to the other side of the room without any mishaps.

Next is some kind of circle dance, a complicated thing where everyone goes around in interlocking rings, meeting in the centre and swapping partners before pulling outward into circles again. I get lost in the flurry of exchanges and end up in the wrong place more than once, but the others seem to find humour in it, and I bow out, laughing and breathless. Fetching up against a wall, I find myself standing next to a guard, and fan myself, hot from all the bodies and motion.

Why am I here? There's no fight. There's no intrigue... It's just a party. There's nothing going on here. I mean, even listening in on the conversations... yeah, there's political machinations amongst people, but it's all concerning this guy's daughter and how they want to vie for position. I've listened to them, and filed away what I can in the back of my mind, but there doesn't seem to be much of relevance. Maybe I'm just supposed to keep my ear to the ground? I have no idea.

The song ends, and everyone breaks for refreshment, giving me the opportunity to get a drink, myself. This is the moment when I notice that Lothrein is still drinking from the same cup. In fact, I've only seen him drink from this one particular goblet, different from all the rest, and then only from wine bottles poured by his personal footman. Interesting. Easier to protect yourself from poison that way, I guess. I snag a glass of what I think is going to be water, and turns out to be chilled white wine. Alas. I'm too thirsty to put it down.

Everyone gathers again, and Lothrein saunters up to me, extending his hand. I smile prettily and take it, and am suddenly swept up into a rakish, tango-like dance that has me blushing heatedly through the entire thing. At least we're not the only people on the dance floor. I would be mortified. Scratch that, I _am_ mortified.

"You move so well for a lady of Ferelden," he murmurs, pulling me in close. I can see from the corner of my eye that it is rather more intimate than is strictly necessary, and try to copy the other women's movements, stepping back from him with a little kick of my heel.

"Father thought it best that I be educated in many forms of courtly activity, in the event that the Guerrins should find use for me abroad," I reply glibly, letting him spin me out to arms' length.

"Oh? And who _is_ your father?" he asks, and I laugh softly to cover up my furious thought. Family! Why didn't I think about that? Quick! Who lives in Redcliffe?

"Ah, he is guard captain in Arl Teagan's employ, signore."

"And this was sufficient to allow you access to such education?" he asks, eyebrow raised as he bends me over backward, and I can feel the hard press of him along my thigh, leaving me momentarily speechless and entirely revolted, though I smile for him anyway.

"Arl Teagan is a generous and fair-minded man, and when I proved both smart and capable, he was only too happy to welcome me into his household," I reply, mimicking the complicated little shimmy and twisty foot-work that the lady next to me is doing.

"You truly are a charming woman," he says, musing, almost surprised, and I smile.

"Thank you, signore. You are most kind." The song ends on a dip, and he presses to me again, foetid breath hot against my neck.

"Perhaps you will join me for a walk through the garden," he murmurs, and I shudder with disgust, unable to suppress it. Fortunately, he completely misreads this as desire, as he rises, standing me up with him, and gives me the most loathsome shark's grin. Kissing my hand, believing himself to have the answer he seeks, he gives me a polite bow and backs away, as is only proper.

I leave the dance floor, catching the snap of fire from his wife's eye, and not liking it one bit. That woman is going to poison me, I'm sure of it. Best not to eat or drink anything else. Seeing Lothrein involved in discussion with a knot of men in one corner, I take the opportunity to duck out and make my way to the powder room. Leliana finds me in the hallway here, and I sigh with relief as we close the door behind us, leaning against it. She lays a finger to her lips, tucking her hair behind her ear significantly, and I nod.

"Maker's breath, I have not danced so much in a very long time," I complain, sitting down. "I find that I very much hate these shoes." No lie. Four hours in heels is too much for me, even now.

Leliana clucks her tongue, kneeling in front of me to remove the offending articles and massage some feeling back into my toes. "I will try to ease your pain, m'lady," she murmurs, and then, after a moment, "May I speak openly?" At my nod, she says, "M'lady seems to have attracted an admirer tonight."

My wide, frightened eyes tell her what I cannot with words, as I laugh softly, apparently light-hearted. "Indeed; it is entirely unexpected." I sigh with relief as Lels pushes on my arches and flexes my toes between her fingers, bringing life back to them and draining away some of the stiffness and pain. "I do believe, however, that I am close to being ready to leave. I find I am tiring rapidly. Do you know how much longer the party is meant to go on?"

"Mmmm..." she hums, trying to judge, as she slips the shoes back on me and I wince at the necessity as my toes are crammed together again. "Soon there will be another moment in the dining hall, for wine and perhaps something small to eat. Many of those gathered will go into the garden to meet with one another and speak privately, then there will be a toast to the Patrizio, after which most will leave."

"So, not too long then?"

"I would not think so, m'lady. Perhaps an hour or two."

I fight not to groan. Another hour or more. Fuckin' hell. _Dionysus, watch over me._ "Hmm. I have no desire to go tromping about in the garden in these heels. I do believe I will sit that out, and simply enjoy the musicians. Attend closely; I wish to leave the moment the toast is finished. Perhaps not the first out the door, but certainly close behind them. Understood?"

"Yes, m'lady," she replies, giving me a wink, and I shake my head, putting a hand to it like I've got a splitting headache, long suffering.

Sticking to my plan puts me unexpectedly in the company of Lothrein's wife, as she takes the seat directly next to me in the ballroom. I give her a very cordial and proper half-bow, as I'm sitting, and she smiles, though it's brittle and doesn't reach her eyes. She snaps her fan at me, opening it with a flick of her hand, eyeing me. "I am Renata Lothrein," she says, unnecessarily, and I nod.

"It is an honour to meet you. I'm Lady Cassia-"

"Of Ferelden, yes, I am aware. My husband does little but sing your praises this evening."

I blush. "Oh..." I say, weakly. "That's... awkward..." I blurt, and she pauses, giving me the strangest look, before bursting into actual laughter. I'm not sure how to take this, so I just sit there nervously, waiting for her to collect herself.

"I have heard it said that Fereldens prize honesty and forthrightness above all else. Is this so?"

"Indeed it is, signora. We believe that truth and honour are among the highest aspirations one can strive toward," I agree cautiously, wondering where this is going.

She snaps her fan closed and drops the mask of civility, giving me a very cold eye. "Do you have designs on my husband this evening?" she asks, bluntly.

I blink, taken aback, then dart a quick glance around the room to ensure that there is no one close enough to overhear us. This, I was not expecting, but I have to honour her abruptness with candor of my own. I am careful to not move my mouth too much, so that my lips cannot be reliably read. "No, signora. In fact, I was hoping that by sitting here, I could avoid getting cornered by him in the garden, for I have no wish to break my vows to my own husband."

She eyes me critically, then seems to decide I'm telling the truth. "Very well, then. I shall keep you under my eye." I'm not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but I nod anyway, and bide. Eventually, she looks over at me again. "It was you who brought the book, yes?" At my nod, she smiles brilliantly. "It has been long since I received a gift so thoughtful. How did you know?"

I blush, not sure how to take that, whether she's lying or what. "Ah, when I sent my maid around to the estate, I asked her to find out what I might bring as a gift for you, to thank you for the hospitality."

"Not for my husband," she says pointedly, and I nod.

"That would be... inappropriate."

She looks at me again, taking my measure, apparently finding me to be much different than she at first had assumed. "Is it not common to gift to the head of a household?" she asks and I grin.

"Ah, the way I see it, the man may own the holding, but he is not the one who runs the house." She laughs at this, genuinely, drawing enough surprised flickers of attention from some of the other guests that I wonder if it's a rare occurrence... and I've made her laugh twice now. Is that good? I hope that's good.

The lady Renata is actually a rather sharp woman, very agile of wit and well cultured. It's a pleasure to spend the next hour or so in her company as she seems to be content in mine, and this rather handily keeps Lothrein at frustrated bay. The last wine is served, the toast is made, and then the guests ready themselves for leave-taking. Renata pulls me aside, now apparently a good friend, and opens her fan, shielding her face as she whispers to me, "He will attempt to have you followed." Snapping the fan closed again, she is gaily laughing, in the blink of an eye, as though she never said anything at all, and I smile back. "Do come again, dear, it was nice to meet you. Send your maid around again soon; we shall have lunch together, yes?"

And then Lels is there, thank the gods, with my cloak, and I am taking my leave, giving Lothrein an entirely appropriate curtsy, and this time he does not take my hand as he bows to me, properly. I steal a glance at Renata as I pass, and she winks.

Getting out of the estate is easy... shaking our tail, not so much, so I take us to the park, not quite sure what else to do, and not wanting to lead our spy back to the Warden base, which would tip our hand even more than it already has been, by revealing that the "Lady Cassia" is staying there, which would ring all the alarm bells at once. We don't know for sure that they've connected the dots on who I am in regards to that alias, so hopefully taking some time to myself in the garden will be helpful.

Once we reach the soft grass, I sit down and take off my shoes and stockings, stretching my feet with a relieved sigh, then flopping backwards to stare up at the impossibly starry sky. I can pick out a few constellations now, which is a little bit of a relief. I can just pretend I'm in the other half of the world, kind of. Don't have to be so far out of time, out of space. I mean, Ferelden is supposed to be in the southern hemisphere of the world anyway, right? So, I'm probably near the equator, only south of it. So there wouldn't be the same constellations anyway right? Right.

Stop thinking about it.

"Tch. Woman. What am I to do with you, hm? I ask you to attend a party, and you seduce the host," Zev murmurs, teasing, from right next to me, coalescing out of the shadows, and I jump with a startled gasp as he chuckles.

"I take it we are no longer observed," Leliana says dryly, and Zev nods.

"Si, we should be getting back. I would prefer for us to be behind closed doors when things begin going awry."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"Poison?" I ask, incredulous. "In what?" Oh gods, I ate a little bit of everything.

"On the cutlery," he says blithely, his massage working upward over my ankles as I sit with my feet in his lap. He chuckles at my wide eyes. "Tch. Such eyes you give me," he chastises gently, smiling. "The antidote was in the glasses, _cara_. You might have noticed that the more paranoid among the elite drink only from their own cups, yes?"

"That's- That's brilliant," Alistair says, honestly, stunned, and Zev nods.

"I cannot take all the credit for the idea, however, for it was Lily _mia_ who told me of one such plot from her own land." I feel my brow furrow. I did? Then it hits me - we spent a couple of days near that island, before we got here. So much happened after that, I totally forgot, but we spent an evening on the beach, and I remember now, I was telling him stories from home, and I mentioned this one book I read about how a noblewoman who hated her husband poisoned the wine but put the antidote in the well water, knowing that anyone who drank the wine would be okay because everyone but her husband, paranoid of poisoning, also drank water.

I blink. "At _sunset_!" I blurt, snapping my fingers, and Zev looks at me with an arched eyebrow.

"Si... you did not understand that part?" he asks, then laughs. "Ah, but it is just as well."

"So... why _was_ I there tonight? I don't feel like I really learned anything useful."

"Ah, no. You were there to showcase your innocence, my dear. It will be clear to everyone that you were unknown to all save Lothrein himself, and as you are not so good at keeping your thoughts off your face, it will have also been clear that you did not know any of those in attendance. So if you are entirely innocent, then you cannot have been involved in what will undoubtedly be an eventful - and ultimately final - evening for a very unfortunate seven, yes?"

So casual he is. It chills the blood.

"What about the necklace?" I ask.

"Proof against poison. I could not be sure that someone else would not take it into their head to slip something into your drink or food, aside from what was already there. I did not wish to take any chances. Anything that would sicken you will simply have no effect, and anything that would kill you will only make you sick. Useful, no?"

"Surely that is a highly sought-after prize," Leliana says, "Else all the Crows would have one. Where did you come across such a thing?"

Zev only smiles enigmatically and shrugs. "From an old friend. It is merely on loan. I have been told that it shall not fall into the hands of the Crows, and was only able to come away with it on the strict promise that it would be only around the neck of Lily _mia_. Tomorrow, once we are certain that any poison you may have ingested has been neutralized, we shall go and return it. I have... other matters to attend to, as well. Speaking of which: Alistair, perhaps you will be interested to know that I have located a certain wayward Warden. I thought perhaps you would wish to deal with him yourself." The grin that spreads across his face as Alistair's darkens is positively evil, and it makes me shiver.

"Yes," Alistair says, without preamble, "I believe I would." I've never heard such coldness from him, and it strikes me in the heart.

He's still alive? Oh man. Enzo is _toast_.

I might want a piece of him, myself.

That thought doesn't scare me as much as it should. What am I becoming?


	22. Broken Wings

_Author Note: I'm truly sorry. I meant for there to be smut at the top of this chapter, and it just didn't go that way. In this story, nothing is ever quite what it seems, and the characters do things that no one quite expected, especially when Zevguy started reading over my shoulder and making uncomfortably insightful commentary about things that came before. He's known where Zevran has been this whole time, and... he's right. So... hold on to your hats. No one thinks like Zevran more than a Zevran does. Things with the timeline get a little confusing, they way they have to be laid out, but I promise it all meshes up, if you go through and really take note of what happens in the course of just one day, over several chapters. Gods, just try not to lynch me, 'kay? I'm telling the story as it unfolds. I love you guys. Hang in there..._

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

I'm exhausted by the time we stand up, ready to leave Alistair's office. "Gods, I can't wait to get out of this corset and just lay down for a while." I groan, stretching my arms over my head, but it doesn't do much for the ache in my ribs and I drop them again with a huff and a sigh. Rubbing my hands together, I stick them under my arms. The night's a bit chill... or maybe I'm just adapting to the climate. Anyway, it just means all the better to make with the cuddlings.

Leliana smiles. "Hmmm... I'd like a bit of something to eat and another glass of wine, myself. I think I've earned it, no?" Her eyes sparkle with merriment as I look at her in surprise.

"You didn't eat?" I ask, incredulous. There was a metric fuck-ton of food there!

She just shakes her head. "Oh no, servants don't eat such fare. I was kept far too busy in the kitchen during the meal to even think about eating, anyway." She laughs at my horrified expression and waves a hand. "I did not miss anything, I promise you. I have had similar meals before, though it certainly seemed like you were enjoying yourself," she teases, and I blush, smiling.

"It's true. I've never eaten so well in my life. It was truly awesome." She gives me a knowing smile. I may not have a Warden's stomach, but I'm no slouch, and that's kinda known around here. "See you tomorrow, Lels," I say, as she turns and slips through the door with a flutter of fingers in farewell. Ponka lifts his head, looking at us as we pass through it ourselves, falling in step beside Zev and me.

"Lily," Alistair says, and we pause as I look over my shoulder at him, silhouetted in the doorway, the lamplight shining around his broad-shouldered figure. "Don't forget to tell him what happened last night," he says, then turns away, shutting the door.

I swallow as Zev looks at me sharply, eyes narrowed in speculation, and I shake my head. I don't like that look at all. "Let's get up to our room," I murmur, and he nods. Damn you, Alistair. I wanted to do something else first. I sigh in irritation, bare feet pattering on the stone as I hustle upstairs, not wanting to drag this out any longer than I have to. All I can think about are his hands, oh gods, and the way he purrs in my ear, the heat of his skin and the way his stomach flexes against mine. I need him, so badly. After all the fear and uncertainty of the last couple of days, all I want is to lose myself in his arms.

I grab the candle from the sconce beside the door and fling it open, using it to light a couple of the lamps before returning it to its place and shutting the door behind me. When I turn around, Zev is sitting on his side of the bed, pulling a couple of long strands of coppery-blond hair through his fingers, and I freeze.

"Cara..." he says slowly, his voice frighteningly flat. He makes the endearment sound like a threat, and this immediately trips my panic button. "Perhaps you could begin by explaining to me exactly how it is that Anders came to be sleeping in our bed."

This is not how I wanted this conversation to start. He's got it by the wrong end. I take a deep breath as I see his brows furrow and his lower lip tighten, fingers flicking the strands away. "Uh. Well, three nights ago-"

"No, I do not wish to know about three nights ago. I was here three nights ago. I wish to know about last night, when I was not here." he says, voice dangerously low, and I've never seen this side of him before. He's never looked at me like this, never spoken to me this way. The force of his sudden jealousy strikes me straight through the heart, leaving me momentarily speechless at the worst possible time, and he takes this for an admission of some sort, becoming even colder. Oh gods, what is happening to us? Being involved with the Crows is going to have him jumping at shadows, even between us? "Did he sleep here?" he demands.

Oh gods, this is spiralling out of control far too quickly. Truth. Just tell the truth, right? I haven't done anything wrong, here. "Yes, but you don't-"

He hisses, cutting me off as he is suddenly on his feet, and I take an involuntary step back, heart in my throat. What the fuck is going on? "And you, Lily mia," he says, his voice a low purr, fire in his eyes hot enough to scald me with that look alone. "Where did you sleep? Here?" he asks, graceful hand gesturing to the bed as he comes closer, voice silk-covered steel, and I can feel myself going pale.

Oh gods, I've never been afraid of him before. I don't want this. This is not okay. I can feel tears gathering in my eyes as I back away from him again and fetch up against the wall.

"Yes, but-" I start, and he winces, interrupting again, the look of barely controlled anger and pain on his face killing a piece of my soul as the tears fall out of my eyes and tumble down my cheeks.

"Oh, yes, cara, please do explain. This, I very much wish to hear." His voice, oh gods, his voice is cold as ice, and I swallow as he steps back from me, wary now, not my Zev at all.

Oh gods. Aphrodite, help me! "It started with the nightmares," I say quickly, licking my lips, and he cocks his head a bit, looking at me from the sides of his eyes. "I had one, a bad one, right before you left - you remember, right? I ran into the wall?" He nods, still wary, and I swallow again, taking another breath. And then I talk fast.

"Well- I should have talked to you about it then, but I didn't know it was different. I mean, different from my usual nightmares. I was dreaming about him, my ex. I dreamed that I never left, that he took me from the ocean, that he had me again, was hurting me, that he shut me up and imprisoned me. I dreamed that this life, everything I hold here, was just fantasy, just smoke and mirrors. He had me convinced I was insane, that you were not real, that I was completely unhinged, whispering the name of a dream lover, trying to escape the reality of a life that was too cold, too painful to bear." I cover my mouth with both hands, trembling, the tears flowing freely, because it was so real. So close to the truth that it scarred me.

"Every night it was worse. I would wake here, and wonder if I was going mad. I tried to function, I did as you asked, I sparred and I read books, I ate and I told Blight stories to the Wardens. And then I would sleep, and I would be there, aching again with all the things that Anders healed," I say, touching my jaw, "Barely able to walk, trying to find a way to escape my prison, helpless and longing for you, and thinking myself absolutely crazy. I couldn't tell, yesterday. I didn't know what was real, I really didn't. I wanted it to be here, I wanted it to be us, but I was so scared-" I choke on it, on the admission that I thought this was all a lie, for a time.

"It seemed so real, made too much sense, for the world that I come from. So I went to Anders, and I asked him to give me some herbs to help me sleep, because I wanted this to be real. I wanted no more dreams. I thought, if Anders' tonic worked, then that would prove it, then I would know. I just wanted to sleep," I repeat helplessly, trying to control my tears, and only having minimal success. "But then I was there again... for days, I thought. And I believed. He kept h-hurting me. And he kept saying, 'you just need to trust me, you just need to let me in, I can help you, give you anything you want, you just have to let me in, tell me you want to be with me, that you want to stay', and I wouldn't- I c-couldn't..." My mouth twists as I reach toward him, but he doesn't come nearer, and I have to let my hand drop. "...Because of you... I only wanted you. Even if I had to live with the idea that you weren't real... I didn't want anyone else. I don't. I couldn't." I swallow, wiping my face on my sleeve, shaking my head.

"You were there when we saved Connor, you know how it works. My ex - Tommy - he was a pride demon. Not then; I mean, in these dreams. It was a pride demon, feeding off me. Enzo sewed some kind of glyph to our blankets, a beacon. Anders drank so much lyrium it made him sick, and then he came into the Fade after me and killed the demon, and brought me back. And I was scared- I was scared because you. weren't. here. and I didn't want to go back to sleep, but I had to, and there was no one else-" I swallow again, the tears choking me off, hardly able to continue, my voice a rasp. "No one else who could save me if something happened again. So he stayed. Yes. He was here, and so was I."

His brows draw together as he pauses, assimilating all this information rapidly, then he licks his lips. "So... He brought you back, yes. This, I understand... But... Why was he in our bed? This - this is what you still have not explained." His voice has lost none of its dangerous edge, and I realize I'm still on thin ice.

I try to keep my voice level, no-nonsense. I need him to hear me, to believe me. I just want it to stop. I just want to go to bed. Oh gods, please stop looking at me like that. "Uh... well, it was the middle of the night, we were both exhausted, and he'd drunk a shitload of lyrium. I was falling apart, he looked like he was about to keel over, and then he still thought it would be better to try and sleep sitting up against the wall." I shrug, awkwardly. "I didn't see the point in making him have a lousy time trying to sleep when he'd put out every ounce of strength he had just to save my ass, so I told him to lay down." I swallow, pleading with him. "The bed's big, Zev. There was plenty of room."

"Ah, I am not a mage, alas. You must explain this to me... So... he put out to save your life? Is that how demons are fought? With his mighty staff?" he asks, so blithe, so cold.

Oh, oh that's low, and I can feel my lip curling with indignation, even as it feels like my heart has just been hit by a hammer. Sharp as shattered glass. "D-Don't you twist my words! You want to believe I've been unfaithful, then fine! Why don't you go fucking ask Anders what happened last night! Make him show you the glyph!"

Zev hovers there for a moment, looking at me, and oh, oh gods, I do not know this man at all, and then he is gone, a flash of movement through the door, leaving it standing open.

I lose a breath, feeling like I've just been punched in the stomach, and sag against the wall. I don't understand how everything went so wrong, so quickly. Looking at the bed now just makes me sick. Coming to an abrupt decision, I leave the room myself, Ponka falling in beside me as I head down to the kitchens, wiping my cheeks on my sleeve again.

Leliana looks up as I come into the Wardens' hall, surprise, then concern flickering across her face. There are too many other witnesses here, other Wardens in the middle of eating, so I just turn and flee, but Lels is hot on my heels, and catches me in the hallway. "Lily!" she calls after me, grabbing my arm, and I turn, unable to stop the constant trickle falling from my eyes. I can't help it. I've been gutted. She is shocked, eyes wide and jaw dropped. Immediately, she takes my hand, tugging me along after her at a run, heading straight for her chambers.

Once inside, she turns, closing the door, and Ponka flops down in front of it, watching me with his big doggy eyes full of worry. It's all I can do to make it to her bed, crumpling and clutching my waist, and then I'm a shameful, sobbing wreck, curling up in a ball.

"Maker's breath!" she exclaims, alarm in her voice, and comes to me, crawling onto the bed and dragging me into her lap to lay across it. Humming softly, she pulls the pins from my hair, combing her fingers through it soothingly as I make a damp spot on her skirt. Her fingers wander down my back, loosening the laces on my bodice, making it easier to breathe, but this only serves to give me more breath for sobbing. Eventually I cry myself numb, finally laying there quiet, though my body still shakes with the force of how I'm breaking inside. I feel hot, and my stomach aches terribly. I press my hands over it, not wanting to uncurl.

"What has happened? Surely this could only be about Zevran," she asks quietly, once there's a space of silence, and I bite my lip, squeezing my eyes shut and taking a deep breath.

"He's so angry. He hardly gave me time to explain, and the way he looked at me... He- He thinks I had sex with Anders," I choke out, and she makes a shocked and disgusted noise in the back of her throat.

"What? Why would he think that? You have never given him reason to think you inconstant, have you?" she protests, and I can tell this is a rhetorical question, but I shake my head.

I'm not going to cry again. I'm not. "But Alistair said to me to make sure I told Zev what happened last night, right in front of him, and then he sat down on our bed and found a couple strands of Anders' hair on the pillow, and-" I can't say any more. It's killing me. "How could he think it?" I whisper, agonized, and she rubs my back softly.

"Shhh... most men are jealous beasts, sweetling, and your Zevran is among them. Considering his rivalry with Alistair, and the way that Alistair still looks at you? Oh yes, I can see it, quite well."

I shudder, shaking my head. "But I explained it- I told him nothing happened. Why doesn't he believe me?" I feel like I'm going to vomit.

Scratch that. I am going to vomit. I flail upward out of her lap, looking around wildly. Seeing no container convenient, I dash over to the window, lean out, and barf over the side, into the bushes below, and then moan piteously. My stomach is cramping something fierce, and I realize this has not been just my upset, as I retch again. "Oh shit-" I choke out, my stomach fighting to empty itself, purging whatever poison was slipped to me. Something deadly. He said it would sicken me. "Zev..." I moan, calling for him, wishing for him, it hurts so much.

Lels comes over to me as I hang there exhausted, half out of the window, and runs her hand up and down my back soothingly. "Shhh... poor dear. This will be rough. Here, drink this. It will stop you having empty heaving." She presses a cup into my hand, and I quickly swallow the bitter liquid, forcing it down before my body has a chance to reject it just on the grounds that it's in my mouth. After a few moments, I slump to the floor under the window and stare dully across the room.

"Oh gods... Well... Lady Cassia is dead," I whisper, my voice harsh. "But why? How? When? I didn't do anything... And Renata seemed so nice..."

Leliana simply shrugs and shakes her head. "Who knows? Perhaps someone wished to pin your death on another. Lothrein, or maybe his wife. She certainly seemed jealous at first. Perhaps they meant to curry favour with her. It is Crow machinations; anything is possible," she says, rummaging around in one of her bags. She produces a small pot, then comes to sit next to me, pulling the cork out. "Give me your face; it's all covered in marks now. This will help," she murmurs, dipping a finger into the cream and smoothing it over my cheek as I turn my head obediently.

I close my eyes, her gentle hands stroking my skin and soothing away the fiery pinpricks. Just as I think my stomach has settled, it flips again, and I scramble upward, hanging out the window, the drink Leliana gave me coming right back up, and I moan once more, this time in despair. "Lels..." I whisper, crumpling back to the floor, as she resumes her seat next to me, pressing another cup into my hands. I just sit, head leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. "He doesn't trust me, Lels... Even after all this... After everything I've done... He doesn't trust me. It's all been for- for- n-nothing-"

Heavy, wracking sobs rock me like my own personal earthquake, no matter how hard I try to hold on to them, as she smooths my hair away from my face, pulling it off my cheeks. I feel like shit. Everything's gone wrong at once. "Nooo... no, darling, no... He loves you. All will be well, I promise you," she croons, petting my hair, and I chug the cup of tea or whatever it is, gagging on it.

"It will never end... he's right... Nothing but blood and death..." I gasp, shaking. "And if Zevran doesn't trust me by now, he never will."

"Who's right?"

"Alistair. He told me I'd never be safe, that it would never end, that they'd come for me forever, because they have to, and I thought- I thought I was ready for that- But I can't- I can't do it... not like this... what am I doing this for, if he doesn't trust me?" I can't catch my breath. I've never felt so hollow, so broken. "Why am I even here?"

These are questions that have no answers, I know, and Leliana has none to give, only the comfort of a friend, her arm around my shoulders. She washes my face and holds my hair, gives me alcohol to rinse out my mouth and rubs the spasms out of my back and shoulders with scented oil that drives away the stench of vomit. She gives me mint leaves and ginger to chew, and hands me cup after cup of the tea that finally settles my stomach. The further into the heaves I get, the sweeter the tea becomes, though she swears she is not changing anything. That means dehydration.

At last, maybe three hours later, I lay quiet against her side, staring and completely hollowed out. I'm feeling claustrophobic. Suddenly, I want to run. I want to be away from here, from everyone. I need time to think. I stumble to my feet, then deliberately stand up straight, squaring my shoulders.

"I think I'm going to go now," I say, my voice empty and cold as the grave, as I pull my dress back on. "I'm tired."

Behind me, Leliana has climbed to her feet, and she rests her hand on my shoulder. "I'll walk with you," she offers, but I shake my head.

"I need some time alone," I say, though I cover her fingers with mine, grateful for the gesture, not wanting her to feel rejected. She sighs softly, and squeezes once before her hand slips away. "Thank you," I say, almost mechanically, but I mean it. "For everything. I couldn't have made it through this without you." I turn and give her a hug, much to her surprise, but I can feel her smile against my neck as she hugs me back tightly, like a true sister.

"Of course. You know where to find me, and you can stay here tonight if you feel you need to," she says, and I nod. Ponka is already on his feet, stepping aside for me as I open the door, and close it quietly behind me.

I look down at him, dropping a hand to his big head, and he grins at me. "You are a very, very good dog," I tell him, scratching his ear, and he flops his tongue out, his little tail nub wiggling. I bend down to drop a kiss on his forehead. "Go play, find something to eat... I'm going to wander around the hold for a while. I know you could track me, but if Zevran asks you to find me for him, don't." He cocks his head, brow furrowing, confused, and I sigh. "Please." He makes a querulous little noise in the back of his throat, a small protest, and I shake my head. "No. Stay with him if you want, but don't help him find me. Protect him if he needs it, okay?" He huffs, then dips his head and licks my hand before trotting off down the hallway, but not without a backward glance for me, at the corner. I blow him a kiss and he perks, sticking his chest out proudly as he trots off.

I turn and walk the other direction, aimless.

There is a turning in the corner of one of the hallways, a place where there is a recessed doorway, if you know to look for it, just like the doorway into the Labyrinth, in that movie with David Bowie. I slip through, into the little alcove behind it, where there is a small bench, just big enough for two, and a window that faces the sea. When I first found it, I had thought to bring Zev here, so that we might steal a few moments alone. I don't believe that will happen now.

I stand in front of the window, staring out at the horizon, feeling nothing. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing. I don't care that I'm a mess. My hair is dishevelled, my bodice half-undone, skirts a rumpled tangle. It just doesn't matter right now.

Somehow everything I've done, all that I've given up, it hasn't been enough. No matter how I tie myself to him, it isn't enough. No matter how permanently I am marked, it's not enough. No matter my words, my oath, my skin beneath his hands, it's not enough. No matter that I have lived for him with every breath. No matter that my heart has beat for him, and only for him, since I drowned, since he forced it to resume its counting of my moments.

At some point, I hear Ponka barking - once in protest, then three times in argument, then nothing. Still, I stand here, unable to move, twisting the ring around and around my finger, watching the stars wheel across the sky, the moon set. As the first pink tendrils of dawn begin to light the horizon, I hear footsteps in the hallway: one set booted, the other four-legged, claws clicking on the floor. Not Zevran, I realize distantly, else I would never have heard him at all.

Of course. I did not forbid Ponka from leading anyone else to me.

"Lily?" Alistair. His voice is soft, tentative, as he reaches out to touch my shoulder, but I do not move, impassive. "Maker, have you been standing here all night?" he asks, coming around in front of me, blocking my view, and I blink, my gaze slowly rising to meet his. He gasps, face crumpling as he looks at me, his hands coming up to cup my cheeks. "Lily, what happened?" he asks, agonized. "Your face..."

"Poison," I say, my voice flat. He traces the lower curve of my eye sockets with the pads of his thumbs, the most gentle of touches, looking so very sad. I must have two black eyes. "I threw up until there was blood." I swallow as he grimaces, pained on my behalf. "You were right."

His brow furrows, and he cocks his head, leaning back from me a bit in surprise. "I was? About what?"

"It'll never end."

He takes a breath, hesitating, but there's nothing to say. It's true. Instead, he pulls me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me tightly, as though he could protect me by this act alone, and for once, it is a comfort. He is a wall of solid strength, safe, warm, real, and present. He smells like cedar and rain, and I can hear his heart beating beneath my ear as I press my face into his chest. I wrap my arms around his waist so suddenly, so tightly, that he makes a small sound of surprise, his hand sliding into my hair in the next moment, and I close my eyes.

"He's gone again," he murmurs, after a long while, and my fingers flex into claws against his back. I don't want to think about it. I don't. It hurts too much. "Cesar came for him about an hour before dawn. He left without telling you, so... I came to find you, but... Your bed hadn't been slept in. Ponka was there; he brought me here. Why haven't you slept?"

I just shake my head, the pain welling in me like a dark flood, stopping up my throat, dragging a hiccup from me as I grimace, trying to hold onto myself, but I've just been through the wringer. He gasps in surprise, then scoots around me, dragging me down into his lap as he sits on the bench and wrapping me up in his arms. I'm too tired, too weak, and too wounded to protest, too alone to try and push him away. I press my face into his shoulder and weep like a child, clinging to his shirt.

"Maker, what happened? I've never seen you like this!" he whispers, once I've stormed myself out.

"He doesn't trust me," I say, my voice husky and ragged from too much crying and sickness. This is what it boils down to. "That he could even entertain the notion that I'd do something like that to him, it proves it, beyond a shadow."

He pauses. "Er... something like what?"

Oh. "He thinks-" I swallow, then shake my head. "He thinks I slept with Anders," I whisper.

His fingers spasm on my shoulder, my hip, and I can feel him set his jaw as his neck flexes against my forehead. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, before he replies, his voice carefully measured. "He should know better," he says, shaking his head. "You don't deserve that. Not from him, not from anyone." Soft lips press to my forehead, startling two more tears from my eyes, and I have to take a deep breath to keep from crying again. His hand lifts from my shoulder, palm cupping my cheek as his thumb wipes one away, so gentle. It is as he kisses my eyelids that I realize his hand is shaking. "Please... Don't cry, Lily. I can't stand it. I would do anything, anything to stop your tears. Tell me what I can do." he whispers, resting his forehead against mine, and I can feel the length of his nose alongside mine. "Let me be your shield."

I shake my head slowly, mouth twisting. "I don't know how," I whisper brokenly.

His hand slides back into my hair, and I hold my breath, but he lifts his face before he pulls me closer, tucking my head under his chin. "I'd do anything for you, Lily, you know that. Just say the words."

"I'm so lost..." I whisper, curling against his chest. "This is the worst week of my life." Haltingly, stuttering, I tell him some of the things I've been trying to keep a lid on, about the pride demon and what it did to me, how it was able to get hold of me so strongly, how I was confused and terrified that I was mad, that this was all a dream. "Pile on that all the things I've done this week, all the things with the Crows, and now Zevran... So cold, he was... and I thought- I thought, 'I don't know him at all', the way he looked at me, like I was- like I was abhorrent... vile..."

His arms tighten around me again, and he shakes his head. "No... no, don't think like that... You're amazing, Lily, brilliant. Beautiful."

I can't help it. I'm so exhausted, so emotionally wrung out, I just break. I confess, shaking like a leaf as the words come all at once, tumbling from my lips whether I want them to or not. I can't hold it all in anymore. "I don't have the heart for this. So much pain and violence and death, so much bloodshed and misery. I'm trying, I'm trying so hard, but I'm not a Warden, I'm not a warrior, I can't pick locks and I don't know what I'm doing. Oh gods, I'm so lost..."

He pulls me closer, crushing me to his chest, and I don't have it in me to protest. I feel safe, and I need that right now. Desperately. "Shhhh... I'm here. I'm here, Lily. I won't let anything touch you, I swear it."

My fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt, clutching tightly as I press my face into the hollow of his shoulder, and as my eyes slip closed, I lose my grip on consciousness as well, hoping like hell that as long as he's got hold of me, I'll be safe.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

When I wake, I'm laying in a bed and covered with blankets, but it's not my bed. Turning my face into the pillow, I smell cedar and take a deep breath. My stomach hurts, and I feel empty. Numb. The bed is narrow, only a little wider than a twin, but long enough to accommodate Alistair's height. The scrap of sky I can see through the open window tells me it's late in the day. Whatever happened in the fallout from the party, I've missed it, and I cannot find it within me to care. By now, Enzo is likely dead. I don't care. I pull the blankets up over my shoulder and burrow down into Alistair's bed, hiding. If I could go home, I would. Tommy could never touch me now. I'd kill him.

I never expected to feel homesick.

Heartsick.

Sick of life.

I can hear Leliana's voice murmuring in the next room, through the closed door, and Zevran's, agitated, angry. I don't care.

I don't.

I don't, I don't...

I do. Oh gods, I do. I don't want to. I don't want to care anymore.

I can't hide forever. Especially not here, even though I want to. It would be easy. So easy.

I don't deserve easy.

Slowly, I pull the covers down and climb out of the bed as Leliana and Zevran continue to argue, and just open the door. There is sudden silence in the room as everyone turns to stare at me - Alistair, Zevran, Leliana, Anders - with a mixture of shock, horror, and sympathy in their eyes. I have no idea what I look like. I don't care. I just look at Zevran, feeling nothing, but I know now that this is a thin veneer over a roiling morass. Any little thing will shatter it.

A myriad of expressions flicker across his face in an instant, starting with the anger I've caught him in, flowing easily one into the next: shock, guilt, concern, pain. Soul-sucking pain, echoing my own. My heart clenches. I can't do this. He takes a step toward me and I back away without meaning to, but I can't help it. I swallow reflexively, my throat tight with all the agony of what I cannot speak, what I don't dare even think about.

I have laid everything I am and all that I will ever be at his feet, and he doubts me. I let him tattoo me, I wear his ring, his earring, and he doubts me. I killed an entire house full of people for him - me, a carpenter, when all I want is peace - and he doubts me.

I see him swallow, nervous. "Cara, please," he begins, but I flinch from the endearment, and he grimaces. Glancing around, I realize we're in Alistair's office, and now I know what this door is. Slowly, I reach up and unclasp the necklace, gathering it in my palm, and look down at it. The numbness still blankets me, and I feel my expression flat as I toss it to him.

"Better return it. Poison's run its course," I say, my voice as desolate as I feel. "I'm sorry I forgot to give it to you before you left." He winces, knowing full well the circumstances of our parting, and has the grace to look at his hands.

"Ah... yes. I... should do that," he says, groping for words, turning away.

I swallow. This is killing me. "Zevran," I say, and he lifts his head, back to me. I can see the sudden tension in his shoulders, and I realize I've never called him by his full name before. It's always been Zev. "Thank her for me." Only Ferrilin would have something like that, only she would have stipulated that no Crow get their hands on it, and the short nod he gives before disappearing through the door confirms it.

There is a moment of silence while everyone looks at each other, and I just stare at the door, then Anders says, "Ah, I can heal that now, if you like." I glance at him, but he's looking at Alistair, and as he turns his head, I see that he has a bruise on his jaw, his cheekbone swollen and raw. He nods, and Anders goes to him, the light flaring in his hand just erasing the damage like it was never there. Then he looks up at me. "Lily?"

I shake my head, glancing around the room. "Where's a mirror?" I ask, and the men shift uncomfortably, but Leliana stands up.

"I'll bring one." In a few moments, she returns, a portrait mirror in her hands. She sets it up on a chair, leaning against the wall, then just turns to look at me. I swallow, hesitating, but go over to it, looking into the polished surface.

I am frightful. My hair is tangled and unruly, my bodice gapping in the front showing rather more cleavage than I would prefer, my chemise fallen off one shoulder, but it's my face that really gets me. I do have two black eyes, very, very purple, and blotchy patches of bruising all over, even down my neck, just the right size to seem like fingerprints, even though they aren't. Anders comes up beside me as I stare numbly at my reflection, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder.

"Do you want me to heal it?" he asks softly, and I bite my lip.

"No," I say, at last. "I want him to see it. This isn't-" I have to swallow twice before I can speak without my voice breaking. "This isn't any better than what I left, and I want him to see it."

There is a pause, and I can see him chewing something over, then he says, "I think you need to see it."

I blink, feeling my brows draw together. "What?"

Anders sighs softly. "Look. Really look at her," he says, pointing to my reflection. "Who is she, really?"

"Uh... I'm Lily."

"Yes," he says patiently, his eyes holding a depth of understanding I'm simply not fathoming. "But Lily who?"

"Maxwell," I whisper, almost apologetic, and he nods.

"Exactly. That woman, right there, is not Lily Mahariel. She isn't. Lily Mahariel is dead. She died ending the Blight. There were thousands who saw her die, who saw her body. The man who just walked out of this office carried it away and had her buried somewhere. She's dead. You're not her."

I blink a few times, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes. "I know! I know, but I'm trying-"

He grabs my wrists, pulls my hands away from my face, leaning down so he can look me in the eye. "That's the problem. You realize you don't have to, right?"

I stare at him, at a total loss. "But- The Crows have a contract-"

"That was for Lily Mahariel," Alistair says. "Not you."

"But I am her," I protest, turning toward him, and he shakes his head.

"No... she was you, but you're not her. You do see the difference, right? You told me yourself. She was a warrior, a rogue, an elf... you are a carpenter, and human. This isn't your life... or... it doesn't have to be, if you don't want it." He comes closer, and I swallow thickly, suddenly feeling the ground sliding out from under me as he pins me with his eyes. "Every time I manage to get you talking about what you're doing, you make it sound like you have no choices. Like you're trapped."

I swallow. "I don't have any choice, though, even if there isn't technically a contract on me. Zev's life is tied to mine, and mine to his. If I don't help him, we'll both die. He needs me."

Leliana's voice is quiet, but it cuts through the room like a razor. "And what do you need?" she asks. This, this one simple question, stops me dead in my tracks. No one has ever asked me that. Not like this. What do you need to eat, what do you need for clothes, what do you need for your health, but never what do you need from life. I don't even know. I've never thought about it.

I swallow. At first, what I needed was to get away from Tommy, and then what I needed was to be close to Zevran. But... "It's only about what I have to do. What I have to do to measure up, to be good enough, strong enough, fast enough. What I have to do to survive, what I have to do to- to-."

"To be what he needs," Anders says, his voice flat, and I catch myself nodding. "And never mind what you need? You realize you're still thinking the same way? Trying to keep your 'him' happy, no matter the cost? Yes, it's improved, because Zevran doesn't seem like the type of man to hurt a woman, not like that, but you're still doing the same thing: you're crushing down your own needs and your own desires so that you can feed his. Is that really your only goal in life? To be his woman?"

I stand there, staring at him, stunned to silence. It sounds so pathetic when he puts it that way, and the problem is, he's right. It is pathetic. The goal that Zev has, to take over the Crows, is not mine. It's not the life I want, it's just the life I've been handed. It's the price of being at his side. I have to pay it, I have to bear it. I have to be strong. I can't be a coward.

"Is it worth it?" My gaze flicks to Alistair as he speaks again, leaning against his desk, facing me, eye level now that he's half-sitting, and I blink. "Is it worth it to break yourself, to lose yourself, just to stay in his bed?"

"You're not just an accessory to his life, sweetling. It's yours, too," Leliana says. "You have a right to ask for things, to desire something else, to disagree."

And still, all I can do is stand here frozen, with all three of them looking at me. I can't think what to do, so I put my hands over my face and bow my head. I've gone straight from one life or death situation to another. No time to breathe, no time to consider. I love Zevran, so fiercely it's eclipsed everything, dragged me to an entirely different planet, someplace impossible. So blindly, that I couldn't even begin to see myself, in all the scramble to just follow him, to try and make myself into someone worthy of him, worthy to be here. Worthy to exist.

Without him, I don't even know who I am, why I'm here... and that's exactly their point. I fell apart on both Lels and Alistair last night, this morning, and I said that. I said exactly that, though I didn't quite realize it. I've had a fucking emotional breakdown, all over the people I'm trying so hard to hold it together in front of. And that's another thing, if I'm going to be entirely honest with myself: I feel completely alone here. I don't feel like I can tell the truth, and I haven't felt like I could, not... not for a long time. Since long, long before I ever got here.

I feel my shoulders hunch as I take a deep breath, trying to get a grip before I start crying again. Running my fingers through my hair roughly, I dislodge a bunch of tangles, liking the pain of it because it brings a bit of clarity, a little more ability to hold myself together.

"I don't know. I really don't. I feel... hollow." I swallow the lump in my throat, my heart pounding and fit to fly out of my chest as I force myself to be fully fucking honest for once, with these people who have put their lives on the line for me - not her, but me - and given me a great deal. They deserve some truth. They deserve at least this much from me. "I haven't- I never even thought about it. I just..." I gesture awkwardly, at a loss.

"Followed?" Alistair offers softly, and I nod, feeling another round of crying burning at the corners of my eyes and trying so hard not to let it loose.

There's a moment of silence while I attempt to gather my scattered self-respect, and then Leliana asks me another question. "If you could choose to do anything at all right now, anything in all the world, no restrictions, what would you wish for?"

I pause, giving that some serious thought. "Well... First, I want to smoke a big fat bowl of ganja, then listen to some music while I beat the snot out of some driftwood and turn it into something useful. Then take a hot shower, eat some chocolate ice cream, and go to bed. Problem is, I only get to have two out of six, if I'm lucky."

Another silence, then, "These are not the words of a woman who wants to be Queen of the Crows, sweetling," she says gently, and I choke.

"Because- Because I don't. I don't want that. It's just... It's just what I have to do," I say, helplessly, because it's true. "I can either stand next to him or lose him. He'll be killed, and me, too. It's- it's just the price I have to pay... to be here... to- to love him..."

"That brings us right back around to my first question: is it worth it? Only you can decide that, but you're still talking like you're trapped. I'll back you up, no matter what you choose, but I'm telling you, from the way I found you this morning, and the way you stand here now, the answer really doesn't look like 'yes'," Alistair says, and I look up at him, meeting his eyes.

Zevran's moment of jealousy is causing me to doubt everything. Everything, all at once. I don't know what to do. I carried Lily Mahariel's opinions with me here, never really giving myself a chance to develop my own. I've thought it before, that dealing with these people face-to-face has been entirely different - especially Alistair - but I never really let myself feel it. I didn't dare look at it too closely... because when I do, everything crumbles apart. Including me.

"I- I- I don't- I don't know- what- what to- what to do-" I stutter, losing my breath, feeling a great chasm opening within me, and there's no one to catch me, the way I'm falling. My heart thuds painfully on the back of an adrenaline rush, and I press a hand to my chest as I struggle to breathe, realizing remotely I'm about to have an actual panic attack. "Oh gods," I whisper brokenly, and suddenly all I want to do is run, but there's nowhere to run to. I can't go home. I don't want to go back to the room I've been sharing with Zevran. Everything else is too crazy to contemplate. I want to be someplace safe, just safe. All I want is to be safe, for once in my life, just for a few minutes, and I'll never, ever have that. Not with Zev. Finally admitting this to myself, finally confronting it head-on, is like a hammer blow, sends me to my knees.

"Make sure you plan your weakness carefully, otherwise it will ambush you when you least expect it," Anders said to me, just two days ago, and he was right. I had no idea how close to the edge I've been. My ears ring and spots dance in front of my eyes as I bow my head, putting my hands over my face, struggling to take deep breaths and ride it through.

I'm weak. I don't want to be, but I am. I'm so weak. I don't deserve to be here. I don't. I'm too far from home, too crazy, too broken. I don't want to be a burden, I don't want to be a liability. I just want to be safe, I just want peace, and I'll never have it, not ever, never again. I just wanted to get away from the violence, and I can't. I can't. I'm such a coward. I thought, if I could just get to him, I'd be safe, I'd finally be safe, no one would hurt me anymore, but it's not true, and he doesn't even believe in me, no matter how much I lay down for him. It's all for nothing, all the fighting, all the blood, all for nothing, because I'm still not safe and there's nowhere else to go and nothing I can do to change it. I'm so tired of being broken, being hurt, being scared. I don't want to be scared anymore. I've been scared for fifteen years, and I'm tired. I'm tired. Nothing ever changes, no matter who I'm with, no matter how far I run.

I don't realize that I've said all of this out loud in a shuddering rush of self-destruction until Leliana's voice comes from right next to me. "Shhhh... All right, it's all right Lily, shhh..." Her arms wrap around me and she leans into me, pulling me into her embrace as I try to remember how to breathe, gagging on all the terror I've been pushing down and ignoring, pretending it doesn't exist. I've never showed so much in all my adult life. Not since Mom threw me out when I was sixteen, and I had to learn how to stand on my own two feet and survive. Not since that first night, when I sat in the park and cried out all my childish beliefs in my mother, and all the things I was always taught a mother was supposed to be. I swore no one would ever see me like this, never again, but I can't help it. I just can't hold myself together, can't even stop the shaking, though I do manage to keep it quiet.

My body can't sustain the tempest forever, not after all the gut-wrenching that happened with the poison, and eventually it subsides into a dull haze. Slowly, I realize that I'm laying on my side, curled up tightly, my head on Leliana's lap, just staring at one of the legs on Alistair's desk as she runs her fingers gently through my hair. My weakness, my total meltdown, bared in front of these people, makes me feel so small, so very small. They're so much stronger, so much more capable than me. And now they know it. It's only a matter of time before everything, everything just slips through my fingers.

And I'll deserve it.

"Lily," Leliana murmurs, and I roll my eyes to the side, looking up at her. "Zevran is here. Do you want to see him?" The trapped little bird behind my breast begs for his presence, whispers to me treacherous agony, and I push myself up to sitting, a more difficult task than it has any right to be.

Zev, Zev please, take me away from all this madness, take me back to yesterday, to last night, before we went to our room, just take me back to when you loved me, and I loved you, and that was enough...

"Okay," I whisper, my voice having deserted me a long time ago. I bow my head, unable to look up, ashamed of myself and all that I've just thrown away. I can hear Alistair murmuring in the hallway, his tone firm and cold, and then there is a silence. After a moment, I become aware of Zevran's boots in my peripheral, but I don't move.

Please touch me, oh gods, I need you, I need you so much...

I hear his leathers creak as he crouches down next to me, one knee going to the floor, and a trembling hand reaches for mine. It takes all my self-control not to flinch, but I cannot bring myself to curl my fingers around his. My heart is a frozen wasteland.

Pull me back from this ledge...

"Lily..." he says, but I can't look up. If I look at him, it'll all come back, and I can't take any more right now.

Don't let me fall...

"Yes."

Tell me you love me...

"Amora, please," he says softly, his other hand reaching out to sweep my hair aside, and I do flinch, but I turn my face, slowly looking up at him, because it's what he wants. His eyes go wide, some horror, some shock in them. I cannot feel anything at the moment.

Tell me I'm your world...

"It should have been you, holding me through the poison," I whisper. "It should have been you with me, this morning."

Tell me this isn't going to end in tears...

My throat works, trying to dislodge the constriction, but there's no relief from the strangling. "Instead, you let the Crows, and all the suspicion and jealousy they create in you, take you away from me."

Tell me I wasn't just imagining things...

I take a stuttering breath, forcing the words out, raspy from taking just far too much abuse. "You want me to trust you, but you don't believe in me enough to know that I would never be anything but true to you, after everything I've done to try and prove myself worthy. I don't even know why I'm here anymore."

Tell me I haven't done anything wrong...

He presses his lips together, his hand tightening on mine. "Lily... I- I apologise... I did not know..." I snort, choking on that, and shake my head, pulling my hand back.

I love you...

"Please, let us go someplace else," he says, pleading in those golden depths, and this is the moment when my heart breaks, shatters, dropped on the floor, because I know I can't ever fix this.

Tell me you believe in me...

"No," I say, shaking my head, and seeing the way this breaks him eviscerates what's left of me.

Take me home...

"I'm not going with you."

"You are my wife, so I-" he says helplessly, practically begging me, and I cut him off, because I have to.

"That's what I thought, too," I whisper, bowing my head again.

I never want to leave you...

Reaching up with trembling hand, I pull the earring from my ear, then slip the ring from my finger, and drop them into his hand, both halves of my bleeding, broken heart. I want to snatch them back. I feel naked without them.

Don't take them... fight... tell me you didn't mean it...

"Give them to someone you believe in." I can't look at him, or I'll lose my resolve. If he asks me to go with him one more time, I won't have the strength to deny him any more. If he touches me again, I'll fall into his arms and never look back, sucked into all the madness and death, just to have his hands on me, yes, just to be allowed to drown in his eyes. So dangerous. They're right; I'd do anything for him. Even destroy myself. It's not healthy.

Touch me, oh gods, don't let me leave, don't leave, kiss me, take me in your arms and promise me we'll be safe...

Turning away, I crawl and stumble to my feet, my back to him, swaying like a tree in a strong wind, and just walk through a door at random, closing it behind me.

I'm back in Alistair's room.

Slowly, I sink down onto his bed, staring numbly out the window at the dark Antivan sky, the moon just beginning to peek over the horizon.

Come for me, don't let them win, don't let it be like this, don't let them take you away... Don't leave me here... Don't leave me...

I'm too weak. I knew it from the start. I'm too weak. I can't stand by him, I can't be his queen. I'm not the woman he needs. I want to be, but I'm not. I'm just not.

It's not my body that's betrayed me, but my mind. The irony leaves me cold.

...And when she covers him, he sets her aflame, Zev's voice whispers in my memory, less than a week ago. One tear rolls down my cheek, falling from the edge of my jaw to land on the back of my hand, and I realize I'm holding my little bone spiral, my thumb circling and circling it. Life, death, rebirth, 'round and 'round we go.

No... no, please... Aphrodite, please... save us... Oh gods please save us...

The moon has fully risen when the door behind me opens and closes again, a stripe of light falling across the room, quickly snuffed. "Lily."

It's over...

"Alistair," I whisper, unable to look away from the moon, this strange orb that I never laid eyes on before washing up on Zevran's shore.

I've lost him...

"He's gone," he murmurs quietly.

Oh gods... oh gods, no... no, please...

"Good," I say, choking on the lie, and then, after a moment, "I'm sorry..."

I hear him shift, then he's sitting next to me on the bed. "Maker's breath, for what?"

"Lying to you. I'll... I've got skills... So much of the carving I see around here is crude compared to what I could do with the right tools... I'll... I'll find a way to get my own place..."

Come back...

"What? Wait, you think- You think I'm just going to turn you out?" A hand rests on my shoulder, then one finger comes up under my chin, turning my face toward him. "Lily... Don't. That's nonsense," he says, softly. "You didn't lie to me. I can see it, clear as day: you're you. A Dalish woman I used to know spoke with your voice, your words, your heart and mind. I'm not going to abandon you. I told you I'd be your shield, and I meant it. Not hers, yours. I've known you were someone different from the start," he says, tucking my hair behind my ear, tracing the rounded edge with one fingertip. "You're just really good at confusing things, with all the things you know. Sometimes it's hard to untangle the threads, but I think I've got it... especially after today. I can give you the peace you're looking for. Stay, Lily. Please."

"Oh gods." All the things I wanted to hear from Zev are truth falling from Alistair's lips instead. Aphrodite, Aphrodite save me... I can feel my lower lip tremble, and my desire to grab onto that offer with both hands is powerful. "It's too easy," I whisper, shaking my head. "I'm such a coward."

"Not everything has to be hard and complicated," he says, quietly. "Sometimes simple is better."

He can and will follow through on this promise, to keep me safe and give me peace. I've only encountered anything different when I've left here. Oh, the safe thing, the easy thing. So dangerous. "Okay," I whisper simply, brokenly, and lose another tear, just one, feeling more vulnerable now than I ever have in all my life.

"Maker," he whispers. It must be all over my face. He opens his arms and I know I should hesitate, but I can't. I need someone I can trust right now, and he's here. I curl up against his side, letting him hold me, and rest my head on his shoulder, completely wrung out.

"I don't want to think anymore," I confess, and he kisses the top of my head, pulling me closer.

"So don't. It's all right for tonight. There's nothing that can't wait for morning, I promise you," he murmurs. "Just rest, Lily... you deserve it. You're safe here."

"Safe," I repeat, hardly daring to believe, even as my eyes are slipping closed again.

"Always," he says, murmuring on the edge of my consciousness.


	23. Rickety Foundation

I've forgotten to get coffee at the grocery store, after he specifically told me to do so, and now Tommy is behind me, chasing me. He grabs me around the waist and throws me on the ground, covering me in the blink of an eye, and I'm naked. He's shoving himself roughly inside of me, hurting me, pinning me with his weight and strength, and I can't escape. I scream and try to fight, try to hit him, but he's got me by the wrists.

"Lily!"

"No! No! No more! Stop, please stop, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-" I cry out, then scream again.

"Lily, wake up, wake up, it's just a dream!" Wait, that's not Tommy.

My eyes snap open to find Alistair hovering over me, pinning my hands to the bed and looking extremely worried in the grey light of pre-dawn. I blink, my heart hammering, breath coming in ragged heaves, the fear thundering in my ears. "Alistair?" Slowly, he eases back, releasing me. I wipe my face with my hands, shaking, and look up again. He's still there, stretched out next to me on his side and propped on one arm, with an angry red set of claw marks across his bare chest. I blink, feeling my mouth pull down in a grimace. "Gods, I'm sorry." Then my brain catches up. "Uh..."

He smirks and blushes hotly, shaking his head, and sits up fully. "Don't worry; I slept on the floor." Glancing to the side, I see there's a heap of blankets there, right next to the bed, and sigh.

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head again. "No, it's all right. I didn't quite know what to do with you, when you fell asleep... I thought about putting you in one of the spare rooms, but I didn't want you to wake up someplace unfamiliar, and... I figured it would be easier for me to keep an eye on you if you were here." He rubs the back of his neck and looks away, blush renewing. "I hope that's okay..."

"I'm really, really grateful." I sit up too, realizing I'm still wearing the stupid party dress, and sigh again. I desperately need something to be normal here. Truth be told, this feels like the morning after a funeral: total burnout. My voice is still low, more alto than usual, but it's an improvement. Even in the midst of desolation, one must continue to live, to function. I can't just let this drag me down into the grave. I've had my freak out, now it's time to make myself useful. When shit happens, Maxwell women get to work. So I need to find something to do.

Running my hand through my hair, I feel the roots sort of greasy and make a face. "Eeew... I need a bath. And some clean clothes. And... I haven't eaten in like, two days, technically." I run my tongue over my teeth; they feel furry and I make a face. "Gross. My mouth tastes like an old boot."

He laughs easily, shrugging into a tunic, and I stand up, carefully holding my bodice together with both hands. This is when it occurs to me that I'll have to go back up to our room if I want a clean dress, my toothbrush, my hairbrush, or anything else I own. Alistair sits down on the edge of the bed to tug on his boots as I curse under my breath and he pauses, looking up at me with a quirked brow. "What?"

"All my stuff is upstairs."

He regards me seriously, nodding as he tugs on his other boot, then sits, elbows on his knees, hands dangling between them. "What do you want to do? Do you want a different room?"

After a moment, I nod. "If... if it's not too much trouble."

He shakes his head, waving a dismissive hand. "No, don't worry about it. We can clear out the room just down the hall, where I threw all the Blight gear." He pauses, studying me, hesitating, then asks, "Do you want me to go up there with you?"

I bite my lip, feeling my eyes start to burn again, and dip my head. "Please."

"Right then," he says, standing up, all business. "Let's go. If we get moving now, we should be able to catch breakfast."

I find Ponka sitting sentinel outside Alistair's door when I open it. He looks up at me, immediately grinning, and I can't help but smile back at him. "Mornin', sweetie," I murmur, scratching his head as he stands up, and he follows us upstairs.

I don't know what I expected, but it hurts to see that everything of Zevran's is gone. It hurts so much that for a moment, I can't breathe, and I have to turn away, go back out into the hallway again and try to collect myself. All the memories well up in me, choking me, and I clutch at my necklace, grimacing, trying to hold back the tears. I fail. I have no more defences. I can't deny how his loss has ripped out a piece of my soul. Alistair's hands come to rest gently on my shoulders and I lean into him, losing my fight to stay silent, sobbing brokenly. He folds me in his arms, and I rest my head on his chest for a few precious minutes, grateful that he lets me borrow his strength. Eventually I force myself to shudder to a halt, catching my breath and stepping back.

"Sorry," I whisper, shaking my head, wiping my face on my sleeve.

"Nothing to be sorry for," he murmurs. "I understand."

The room doesn't look ransacked, though there is a neatly folded pile of my clothing on the bed that had been in the trunk on top of some of his things, and on my pillow, a leather pouch, heavy with silver, easily over two hundred pieces. I cover my mouth with one hand, feeling my heart tear just a little bit more. Oh, so cold. Payment. I gave him back the earring, when the first thing I said was I wouldn't accept it as payment. If I won't accept it from his heart, then payment it shall be.

I drop it on the bed like it would burn me if I held it any longer, and some of the silver spills out on the blanket. My stomach flips, already unhappy from all the barfing, now empty enough to cramp anyway, and I swallow as my mouth fills with black water. He _paid_ me.

Oh, my heart.

After a few moments where I stand there like an idiot, hands over my mouth, I take a deep breath and gather it up again, tying the top closed. For a moment, I have the urge to take his pillow, to press my face into it, remember his scent, cover myself with it so I never forget, so I can pretend he's still here, this isn't happening, the Crows didn't eat him and take him away from me. It takes a conscious effort of will to leave it behind as I gather my things from the trunk, another piece of my soul laying bleeding on the mattress as I turn away. My arms are full, so Alistair picks up the stack of clothes and the pack that has all the things I came here with inside, revealing my out-of-place combat boots, at the very bottom of the trunk.

He only hesitates a moment before he picks them up, but doesn't say anything as he leaves the room, leading the way down to the one that has all the trunks in it. Zev's is gone now, of course, but mine is still here.

I have to stop again, closing my eyes as the memory of the falling pallet of crates assails me, his golden eyes in the final flash of consciousness before I blacked out, the fear. Was it fear for his own life, or mine? How much is in question now? Was it calculating all the time, or did he just get sucked in again, lose himself? Lose us.

But Lels is right: I _don't_ want to be Queen of the Crows.

Can I still have him, even if I'm not?

I'd still be his wife, his consort. I'd still be leverage, which means I'd never get away.

_Aphrodite, help me... I'm bleeding..._

I drop everything on top of my trunk as Alistair comes to a stop next to me, handing me the stack of clothes. I swallow and press a hand to my stomach, trying to convince it that throwing up will be useless, since there's nothing in there. After a moment, it subsides, and I straighten, wiping the sweat off my upper lip with the back of my hand. Gods, bodies are gross sometimes. All the leaking.

He sets down my pack, but not my boots, turning them in his hands, examining the soles. I've had to have them replaced three times, so far, so they've got lugs on them now, when they used to be just flat. I count myself fortunate that I resoled them about two or three months before I ended up leaving home; if I'm careful with them, they'll last me at least another four years before I have to figure out what to do... maybe longer.

"What's the sole made out of?" he asks, pressing his nail into the side of it gently.

I take a deep breath, glad of the distraction. "Stacked rubber," I say, looking up at him, and he arches an eyebrow. "I'm not sure how it's made, but it starts out as sap from a rubber tree." I shrug. "Grows in the jungle, far as I know. You might not have them here."

"And the laces?" The steady way that he looks at me makes me wonder if he's trying to distract me on purpose, so I answer.

"Parachute cord. Made from nylon, which is some kind of synthetic fibre made by scientists, uh, alchemists - I really don't know how it works - but the inside is cotton, I think. And, a parachute... uh... It's a round, domed canopy, made from silk, with ropes hanging down, and you can use it to float safely to the ground if you have to jump from a very high place, but it needs very sturdy, light-weight cord, in order to work properly." Oh gods, this is going to be horrible. I know too much. I'm going to do a bastardised version of daVinci or something, 'invent' a bunch of stuff. Oh no.

Oh well. I should do something useful for the Wardens.

He runs his finger over the stitching across the toebox. "The stitches are all perfectly even," he says softly, and I nod.

"That's because they were done with a machine." Gently, I reach up and pull them from his hands, looking at them regretfully before dropping them down next to Lily Mahariel's trunk. "I love them; they've served me well for fifteen years. But... they... I can't really wear them here. There's no way to fix them if they need repair." I sigh sadly, then shrug. "Maybe I can show them to a cobbler, see what they make of them. Who knows; they might learn something, yeah?"

When I look back up at him, he is watching me carefully, studying me like he's never quite seen me before, and I smile nervously. After a moment, he says, "Will you show me what else you brought with you?"

I bite my lip and hesitate, but I did tell him I trust him completely. Picking up the pack, I look inside, and there are my jeans, shirts and bra, socks and wool peacoat. As I pull out the pants, shirts, and coat, they surprise me, because I can tell they're all too big for me now. He picks up my jeans, looking at the fly. I watch as he explores it, tugs it up and then blinks at it, sliding it back and forth.

"What is that?" he asks.

"A zipper. I'm not sure how it works, exactly, though. The slider thing meshes them together inside." I shrug. "I can make clothes, and I know how to put one into a garment, but I don't know how they're made. All I can tell you is that if the slider comes off, the zipper is likely broken, unless you're really lucky and want to mess with it for a couple of extremely frustrating hours, which is why I've always preferred buttons. But... where I come from, getting a pair of jeans with buttons for a woman my size... or... well, the size I used to be, was nearly impossible. I'm all hips and thigh, and the clothing makers back home preferred to make clothes for women who were very... lean. Skinny. You might be surprised by what was the standard of beauty." I look down at myself, pulling the bodice tight against my stomach. I'm probably about a size twelve, fourteen on bottom, down from a sixteen and eighteen. Haven't lost my boobs though. That's a bonus, right? "They'd still consider me fat."

He blinks, lip curling. "Really?"

I smile, giggling a little. "Yeahhh... Little girls are told from a very young age that food is their constant enemy, that they have to feel guilty over every bite, and if their thighs touch, they're too fat." The look of distaste on his face is eloquent, and I grin. "You'd be considered off-beat for disagreeing, but as far as I'm concerned, it just shows good sense. Here... this is a flannel, made from cotton... and this is a hoodie, also cotton... and this is a t-shirt, cotton as well." He picks up my hoodie, examining the safety pins on the cuffs that keep the thumb-holes from ripping too far open.

"What are these?"

"Safety pins. Look-" I open one, and he blinks.

"Oh!" he exclaims, and I grin. I pull it out of the fabric, then, after a moment, hand it to him, closed. He pinches it between his fingers, playing with the way it opens and closes. My coat jingles as I pick it up, and I go through the pockets. "Ah!" Alistair exclaims again, and I look at him. He's got the side of his finger in his mouth, and I giggle. He gives me a narrow-eyed, playfully suspicious sort of look, and I dip my head.

"It's only funny because just about everyone I've ever met has poked themselves, the first time they get hold of a safety pin," I tell him, and he laughs softly under his breath, embarrassed and amused at himself, a little shy of me. "I should see if maybe the smiths can make something like it. If you've got forges hot enough to make steel, there should be some way."

In my pockets, I find a handful of coins, a pen, a mini-Sharpie, a mechanical pencil, half a pack of cigarettes, my Zippo, house keys, and a receipt from 7-11. These things are so out of place, they shock me. I haven't even looked at my coat since Zev fished me out of the ocean. I close my eyes for a moment and forcibly shove aside thoughts of our halcyon time on the ship. I'd forgotten all this stuff was even here. I become aware that Alistair is looking at me, watching me hold these things in my hands like the castaway that I am, and I shake myself.

"Here... these are the coins where I come from." I drop them in his hand. "Penny, nickle, dime, quarter; one, five, ten, twenty-five. They're not really silver or copper; they're alloyed, not worth much, really. These are fractions of our actual currency, the dollar, which is a hundred pennies. Based on what things cost here... I don't know..." I put a finger to my lips and rack my brain for a good comparison. What frivolous items were there? My eye lands on a rolled up carpet stashed in the corner behind the trunk, where Leliana stuck it during our frantic gearing up. "A silk carpet goes for about thirty-five silvers," I say slowly, working it through, "But at home, it'd be like, three hundred and fifty bucks, so... I guess a silver here is worth about ten dollars. That means this-" I hold up the dime, "-is the same as one copper here. So the nickle's a half copper, and the penny is one tenth. Not exactly useful.

"We don't have kings and queens; we have presidents, supposedly democratically elected, but, well, you know how politics go. These're some past ones... Washington, there, first president; Lincoln, freed the slaves; Jefferson, good man, very eloquent and intelligent, wrote the treatise our country was founded on. Roosevelt saved the nation during a time of financial crisis by being brilliant." I shrug. "Anyway, this is just chump change. Can't buy much with it. Little bit of candy, maybe an apple."

I pick up the Zippo. "This, though, this might be interesting. Check this out... I wonder if it still works..." I spin the wheel and it catches, producing a tongue of fire that glows bright green for just a moment before sputtering and going out. Alistair starts back, shocked, and I giggle. "Ah, it's damaged from being in the sea. Usually the flame is orange. Look... it's like a lamp; here's the wick, and then there's a flint right in here, and this is the striker. You can pull it apart, if you take the screw out of the bottom, and then there's a load of really densely packed cotton inside here that you can soak with kerosene, to keep it fuelled."

I hand it to him to look at as I go through the stack of clothes, picking out one of the bras that Lels and I made, a tunic, and a pair of breeches. "Kamel Red?" he asks, and I turn around, looking at him.

"Oh... yeah... uh... cigarettes. Tobacco. I don't know if you have that here. They're for smoking."

"What's 'cancer'?"

I bite my lip, then sigh. "It's a sickness. Nasty things that grow inside the body, devouring from within."

"These cause that?" he asks, eyebrows raised, and I shrug.

"Yeah, pretty much, but it takes years, usually."

"Then... why smoke them?"

I sigh. "Appetite suppression, stress relief, habit." Shrugging again, I side-eye them. "I haven't thought about them since I got here, really. Too much else going on. We... we should toss them in the hearth. Get rid of them. Anyway, a lot of this is stuff I really don't miss. The safety pins and the Zippo should be fairly useful though." I sweep all the stuff up, save the lighter and a safety pin still in Alistair's hands, dropping it back in one of my coat pockets, then stuff all my clothes back into the bag and leave it behind the trunk. "That's enough of that. I can't look back too much. But... now you've got me thinking... there are a lot of things I can probably make or show people how to make that'd be really useful." When I stand up and turn around to look at him again, he's got the most curious smile on his face. "What?" I shift self-consciously.

He just looks at me for another moment, amused, then shakes his head. "I'm glad you're here, Lily," he says, touching my shoulder and making me blush, embarrassed. "I think after we eat, I want to introduce you to our carpenter. Let's go see about baths."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

I'm really not sure about this plan. But... I do know that when nothing else makes sense, wood is a comfort, because it can be measured, manipulated, changed, and it's only unpredictable within a certain set of parameters. It's never confusing, never demanding. It's steady and logical, and the things I can do with it are useful, helpful, and constructive. It gives me a feeling of accomplishment, a way to measure myself by the things that I can make with my hands.

And I've missed it. I haven't had a carving knife in my hand in months, and it feels unnatural. Even if all I can do is decorative stuff, it's better than what I'm doing now, which has been a fat lot of nothing, in between bouts of violence and intrigue. I have not created anything worthwhile in all the time I've been here. Maybe Alistair knows me better than I thought. _Me_, not her.

The idea that it's okay for me to take up my actual occupation is startling in its simplicity. I never thought I'd want something so badly, but I do. I really want to just _be_, uncomplicated. Just a carpenter.

That can be okay, can't it?

I hope.

Just don't think about what I'm giving up. Just keep swimming.

Work. I just need work. Put my hands to use. Good use. Practical use. Right.

Brizio, the Wardens' carpenter, is a squat older man with blunt-fingered, scarred and callused hands and powerful, burly shoulders. Alistair introduces us, and the carpenter eyes me, looking me up and down with a critical, disbelieving eye. "This little slip?" he asks, looking at Alistair with an eyebrow raised, and Alistair nods.

"Yep!" he replies cheerfully. "Have fun!" and then he turns and strolls out, leaving me to be scowled at.

"Well... I suppose I could use an apprentice to do the sweeping," he grumbles reluctantly, and I give him a winning smile.

"Yeah? Hmmm... Okay, sure." While he works on fixing the rungs on a kitchen chair, I sweep up the shop and organize the tools, taking inventory. Once I've got everything laid out, I can see that he's got roughly a third of the planers, and less than half the gouges I'm used to. No dovetail chisels. "Have I gathered all your tools properly?" I ask him, and he looks up from the chair he's tying together, waiting for the glue to dry.

He eyes the array critically, taking count, then nods. "That is the lot of them."

"Is this a full set?" I ask innocently, "Or are there other tools that would be different, in another shop?"

"It is a full set," he says, gruffly. "Masterwork tools."

I can't deny, they're of really good quality, and I pick one up, examining the maker's mark on it more closely. It is a five petalled flower with intricate weaving at the centre. "Who makes these?"

"_Pietra Sacra_," he replies. Sacred Stone. Huh. Dwarven smith? Judging by the clean lines, I'd say whoever it is must be a real artist, and file that away for future reference.

I spend the rest of the day watching him move around his shop, studying his methods, questioning him about the contents of his glue, paint, and varnish pots, the compositions of said substances, and his theories on how wood takes weight. I listen carefully to the things he says he has trouble doing, and determine he needs a set of double calipers, a late Renaissance invention, I believe. A standard ruler would be helpful, too. Everything is made to measure at the moment, using string and chalk or charcoal. He lets me raid his scrap bin, and gives me a decent carving knife, so while I sit and watch him, listening to him grumble and talk to himself, I sort through some of the smaller pieces of wood.

What should I make?

I'm not sure I want to try my hand at carving a cup from scratch... here's some pretty dark wood... maybe a necklace? I frown, setting that piece aside, and then my eye falls on a small pile of discarded blocks, probably from some mortis and tenon construction, about the same size, and all the same wood. I pick up a few of them, turning them in my hands. They're pretty, a medium blond, not too dense, but it'll finish beautifully. The lines swirl around the outside, the way they're cut, and as I'm turning one, I see a profile in the wood, the hint of a face, on one of the edges.

Ah-hah - I'll make a chess set. It's straightforward, predictable and linear in its basic structure, but with room for artistic expression, and will get me used to the knife again. I begin counting the blocks, and discover that if I cut each block in half, I'll have enough to make an entire set, with two blocks left over. Then I'll just need to make the board. Carving pieces ought to keep my hands busy for a week or so, maybe two, maybe longer, depending on how hard the wood is and how this knife fits my hand after three hours. I miss my little knife. I slowly pick out the figure of the queen that I saw in that first block, watching Brizio and asking questions, occasionally getting up to fetch, hold, or tidy things.

Around lunch, Leliana comes by, luring me away with the promise of artichokes, and I spend a quiet few minutes in the Wardens' hall until they all descend, chasing Lels and I out with good-natured teasing and catcalls that make us both giggle and blush. We retreat to the courtyard to finish eating, where Ponka shows up for a bit to check on me before trotting off on Important Doggy Business. She and I just sit, discussing nothing of particular importance, though the elephant sits in the corner being distinctly elephant-like. I just can't look at it. This is a thin layer of glass over the top of a very deep pit. I don't dare stand on it, let alone look down.

After lunch, I wander back down to the shop and keep working on my little figure, listening to Brizio wax poetic on great Antivan painters, both past and present. I take my time with the queen figure, picking a bit off at a time, and as I accidentally chip off a bit I meant for her hair, I decide that I'll do spring and autumn courts. One flowers, one leaves, which means that this bit I took off is totally on purpose because it's the edge of a leaf. Exactly.

The rest of the afternoon passes slowly as I obsess over the queen, and eventually turn out a very nice little piece. Just as the shop is growing dark enough to require lamps, Brizio stretches, tying off the last thongs on another chair to let the glue set up overnight. "Ah, now, let me see what you have pulled out of my scraps box, yes?" he says, coming closer, and I stand up, handing him one of the blocks. He turns it over in his hands, nodding. "Fine, fine choice, and what have you carved?" Silently, I hand over the queen. She needs a little bit of sanding, a little varnish, but she's fairly good to go, since I took so much time on her, and his eyebrows go up in surprise. I smile. "This is very good work!" he says, turning her over in his hands, making me blush.

"Thank you," I murmur, looking down, because I've never really known what to do with praise over my stuff.

"You know more than you are telling," he says, not as a way to get me to speak more, but more as an observation. "You are no apprentice."

I bite my lip, then shake my head. "No, it's been a long time since I was an apprentice, but I'm very much enjoying learning from you. You're filling in gaps in my education, and I appreciate that. If it's okay with you, I'd like to go on being your apprentice for a while."

He studies me for a moment, then nods, handing me back the figure. "It is well. I will see you in the morning. There is much work to do," he says, gesturing to a small pile of things that need a lot of work to restore, and I nod, dipping my head.

"Until the morning then." I leave the unfinished blocks in the box, but take one with me. Maybe I can start on another piece while I wait for unconsciousness.

_Don't think about it. Focus on what's right in front of your nose._

Time for dinner. I can tell by the way the Wardens' hall smells like food, and the general rumble of about fifty voices growing louder. I grab a plate and snatch a few things off the table before the door opens, retreating to the edges to watch the truly awesome influx from a relatively safe perch at the edge, back to a corner where I won't be in the way.

I have something to do. I can be useful. I can see this being my life, a straight and predictable road stretching on toward the horizon, a life I was meant to lead, that I know _how_ to lead.

_Don't think about it, don't think about it._

Angelo sits next to me as I dig in, giving me a friendly smile, and for once, the hall being full of Wardens doesn't bother me. I'm too busy eating, and there are so many men here, I kind of get lost in the shuffle. I end up eating an almost Warden-sized portion, Angelo eyeing me, surprised. "I thought you said you are no longer a Warden," he murmurs, and I grin.

"Yeah, well. I can still pack it away," I confide, and he laughs.

Alistair suddenly appears on my other side as I'm contemplating whether I can get away with stuffing a few more strawberries in my face, bumping my hip with his own to make me scoot over so there's room for him, crowding me up against Angelo, who smirks as I blush at being crushed between them.

"How'd it go with Brizio?" Alistair asks around a mouthful of cheese, and I grin, grabbing a handful of strawberries anyway.

"I think we'll get along all right," I say nonchalantly, and he arches an eyebrow, then grins back.

"I knew you'd win him over," he says.

"You are apprentice to Brizio?" Angelo asks, interested and surprised, and I nod self-consciously, dipping my head. "He does not take apprentices! They all run, after the first day!"

I laugh. "Well, then I guess it's a good thing I'm not really apprentice level, because he seemed to like me okay..." Angelo suddenly sees me with a larger measure of respect, making me blush again.

"What do you think of his shop?" Alistair asks, and I can tell by the way he looks at me that he knows I will have found it lacking somehow, and is interested in my reply.

"I need a forward-thinking blacksmith," I tell him. "He has roughly a third of the tools I left behind in my own workshop, but says he's got one of everything. It's fine for now, but it will eventually be like trying to work with one hand tied behind my back. We'll need a blacksmith who won't start selling my designs to just anyone. Somebody we can trust."

Alistair nods, washing down some bread with a bit of ale. "Right. I'll look into that. Might take a while."

"That's okay. I've got something to keep me occupied until then," I reply, taking the hull off a strawberry. I smile when he arches his eyebrow; pulling the little queen figure out of my pocket, I hold it up. He stops eating when he sees it, eyes widening, and sets down his cup, wiping his hands on his pants. Taking the queen very carefully and holding her gingerly, he turns her in his fingers. She looks so tiny in his big hands and I find myself blushing at the thought, and the way he studies her with such intensity.

"Wow... She's beautiful," he eventually says, quietly enough that it's almost lost in the cacophony of the hall. I only hear him because I'm right next to him. The look on his face flickers vulnerable as he glances up at me. "Er... I don't suppose you'd let me keep her..." he says, side-eyeing me, and I laugh.

Of course. Alistair and his figurines. And just like that, I know, the first chess board is going to have to go to him. "Okay. I'm making a chess set. It'll take me a while, but..." I bite my lip, and I couldn't really tell you why I feel shy about this, but I do. "Uh... I'll..." The intensity in his eyes takes my breath away for a moment, and I have to look down. "I'll give you the pieces as I make them... if you want..." I clear my throat. "Uh, I can build the board tomorrow, so you'll have someplace to keep them."

"Er... That sounds great!" He pauses. "What's chess?"

I blink. That never even occurred to me. He eyes me as my grin grows a touch too wide for his comfort, and I shake my head to banish whatever weird thought he might be having. "It's a game. The method is very easy, but the strategy is hard. Well, depending on who you play. I know the basics, how all the pieces move and what the rules are, but I'm really bad at it. It's fun though. I'm almost certain you'll pick it up and be kicking my butt in no time." Now I'm excited to get it done, just so I can teach him. I need a basket to carry those blocks around in.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

During the day, things have been hauled around and repositioned in my room. The bookcases are against the wall, the extra trunks and armour on stands are gone. The four-poster bed in the centre of the room has plain white curtains on it, pretty in their simplicity against the dark, carved wood. I decide it's time; looking through Lily Mahariel's trunk is no longer something I can put off, if I'm going to be living next to it, so I spend time pulling things out and examining them, putting them away or setting them aside. I assemble her two suits of armour and put them on stands in one corner: Shadow of the Empire and the dragonscale armour Wade built that she wore into battle against the archdemon. I can barely lift the heavy plates onto the form, and it humbles me. She moved like a dancer in this, and I can't even pick it up without breaking a sweat. The Shadow set is much lighter and feels like mine. I've worn it before, and I seriously love those boots.

In a painted wooden box, there is a collection of jewellery and a bunch of things I hardly recognize, things I have to really think about to place, and then it hits me: I saved a bunch of things out of sentiment. When I had to swap out people's personal items, I put them in storage at the Peak. I also saved things that were given as gifts of gratitude from people I had helped. It didn't seem right to sell Athras' pendant, for instance.

I take them out, one by one, trying to identify them without the codex entries. A necklace shaped like a wheel with a blue stone, a coiled and supple leather belt with birds in flight tooled into it, a worn gold ring with a rune on it, a large brooch with a purple gem set in it and a very intricate filigreed border, a chunky gem of smoky grey in a simple pendant setting that seems to look rough on purpose, a necklace with wooden beads that look like animals, a weird ring that feels oily and kind of heavy for its size, a small wooden pendant where two birds form a circle with their wings touching, another ring with oddly sparkling blue stones, a wooden one carved with foxes and rabbits and a third in the shape of a curled leaf...

Let's see... Seeker's Circle - that's got to be Leliana's... Dalish belt, Runic Worrystone - Alistair's... Varathorn's brooch? Morrigan's necklace - what was it? Wildstone clasp? I think I'll get rid of this one. Lily's mother's necklace, and then maybe this is the ring from the barkeep in Redcliffe. What was his name? Lloyd. Right. This is Athras's pendant, of course, but these three rings... I'm just not sure. I bet the wooden ones are Dalish though. Hmh.

At the bottom of the box is a necklace, worked in braided leather, a small glass vial wrapped securely in the tethers. A dark liquid peeks out from within its depths, and I hesitate to pick it up. I know what this is. It's my Joining necklace. Hers. Ours.

My pentacle grows hot as my hand nears it, and I decide it's better if I don't touch it. I take the helm off the dragonscale set of armour, and use an arrow to pick up the necklace and put it on the stand, then replace the helm. There. Now it's someplace safe, and basically where it belongs, and I won't have to touch it. I think I remember Alistair saying he made it, and I study it a moment more. It's very tightly braided, a very intricate knot. If he made this, it was his first token of affection; that knot is definitely something that took a while. My heart thuds dangerously, and I turn away.

_Don't think about it._

Now is not the time for such things.

Both my daggers go on the stand with the Shadow armour, but there's a big longsword in here, made from a strange blue metal, the blade oddly pointed and chased with interweaving lines of knotwork. It's heavy as hell, and bursts into lightning the moment I touch it, making me spring back in surprise with a startled shriek, even though it didn't hurt me. I stand there breathing heavily, staring at it. Starfang. I gave this to Zevran when we went up against the archdemon, because Alistair had Duncan's sword, and I didn't see how I could take it away from him. Why is it here?

Because he went and bought the Rose's Thorn after the battle.

The memory of that dagger held against my back on the beach, that afternoon with Zevran, and what happened almost directly after, assails me with perfect clarity, almost like a physical blow, and I wrap my arms around my waist, sitting down on the bed. In the next moment, there is a knock at my door and I have to look up. "Yes?"

It cracks open a bit, and Anders pokes his head in, looking about quickly before his eyes land on me and he smiles. "Heard you scream. You okay?"

I laugh weakly. "Yeah. Come in." I point as he pushes the door closed behind him and comes to stand near me, looking into the trunk. "That's Starfang. It's set with lightning runes. I totally forgot, and it startled me." I think about how heavy it is, how hard it must have been to swing that thing like it was effortless. The image of Zev with it in his hand, wielding it as easily as a dagger, comes to my mind unbidden, only not in cartoonish pixels, but what he must have looked like to Mahariel, all that danger and grace, oh, and he is so beautiful.  
Oh, oh I did, I stole her husband and her life, and I'm not strong enough to take that on, not by a long shot. And I've broken us because of it.  
I tried though, I really did. My failure is eating at me, burning my soul from the inside.

"Hey," Anders says softly, and I realize he's turned to me. I look up, and his brows draw together. "I'm going to ask you again: are you okay?"

I swallow, hesitating, looking up at him, but Zev's right: I can't really keep anything off my face, and I'm not fooling anyone. "No," I answer honestly for once, my voice breaking. "No, I'm really not. But I'm trying to be."

Anders sits down next to me, looking at the collection of objects in the trunk, things I still haven't unpacked, and a silence stretches between us for a few moments. After a time, he takes a breath, and says, "You keep doing that."

I blink. "What?"

"Denying your emotions." He's got me dead to rights, I just don't understand what he's getting at, and the way he pins me with his eyes makes me feel small and pitiful. "Why do you feel guilty for having them?"

"Because they're all wrong," I blurt, then have to avert my gaze and squeeze my eyes shut. I'm not going to cry any more. I'm not. I'm fucking done.

There is a pause, then his voice is carefully neutral. "How are they wrong?"

"Because I should be stronger than this," I grit out, ashamed. Here I go, showing all my weakness again.

His voice is still careful as he tries to draw me out. "Why should you be stronger?"

I sigh, twisting a bit of my tunic hem between my fingers, and frown. "Because... everyone else clearly is. No one else is losing it, just me, which means this is all in my head, and if it's in my head, then I need to ignore it, because it's not rational."

He snorts. "Of course they aren't _rational_. They're _emotions_. That doesn't mean it's safe to ignore them." Another pause, long enough to make me fidget, then he asks, "What does a 'strong' person look like?"

I swallow. Abrupt subject change, okay... "Uh... A strong person takes things with grace, good and bad. They don't have nervous breakdowns in front of their friends. They don't shy from work, just because it's hard, or scary. In times of crisis, they are the level head. No matter how heavy the load, they bend their back and bear it. They are steadfast in friendship and defenders of their families. Off the top of my head," I say, not wanting to continue a litany of all the things I'm not.

"Hmmm... That's a pretty good description, I'll give you that." I can hear him scratching his chin, then he says, "So, you know the Commander pretty well, and you have an easy way with Leliana that shows you've been friends for a lot longer than you've been here. In fact, I'd say they think of you as family." I look back at him, and he's got the strangest little smile on his face. "So, you weren't in front of your friends." He holds his hands up in surrender to stave off any protest. "But even if you do want to see it that way, Lily, I can't see how any of the rest doesn't apply to you."

I snort. "Because I couldn't keep it together, Anders. I lost all of it. I let that demon crawl into my head and stir my mind around to the point that I thought I was crazy. I couldn't just deal with it and sleep, and so I got what I deserved there, I guess. I couldn't just ride through the poison and wait it out, just carry on, because it scares me too much. And so I show myself a coward, and weak, and I lose him because I don't deserve him. I'm not strong enough to stand at his side; it was all moments stolen from a dead woman. He needs her _physical_ presence, not just her heart, and I don't have that to give him. And so no, I'm not enough. Yes, I'm too weak," I say, dumping it all out in one breathless rush, and that's it in a nutshell. I'm ashes. I shudder, curling in on myself, and shake my head. I've done so much crying that I simply am not capable of it anymore. After a few moments, the tremors pass, and I sit up again, putting my hand to my forehead. I think I'm getting a headache.

He is quiet for a moment, then hits me with another subject change. "What were you like, before all this business with the Blight and the Hero? If you went back to then, what would you have said you wanted out of life?"

I bite my lip. Something else I've been trying not to look at. "Uhm..." I hang my head. "It's really kind of pathetic, honestly." I shrug a shoulder, awkwardly, then wave a hand. "I didn't have any real goals."

"No, but you did, because you just said, but somehow you think they weren't good enough. What did you want?"

I clear my throat, embarrassed. "Uh. Well, I owned a house by the sea, and I wanted to continue to build things out of driftwood, live there with my books and my cat and my hobbies, free to do as I wished, until I could find a mate, probably a man, who would come to live with me, someone who would share my life of quiet and be happy there. Someone who would build a family with me and then maybe there could be something else later. I didn't dare think that far ahead..." I trail off. "Nothing, really."

"Nothing? You have a desire to live a useful life with love in it. You wish to share a fire with someone, create a family. Those aren't trivial pursuits. Not everyone has that desire, let alone that capability," he says, the last of it coming out very softly, and I kick myself as I realize that I've said this to _him_. Someone who likely won't have that at all for himself, either. "How is reaching for that not good enough?"

"Oh... I didn't have a career. I never went to college or had my own apartment that I lived in by myself." I catch myself, looking at him from the corner of my eye, and he's clearly not following, so I shake my head. "Sorry, I mean, I didn't have a job that I did, out in the community, like working for a merchant or being involved in politics or something. I never did any higher schooling, which is really very expected of a lot of young adults, but I felt like I could pick up what I needed from books. And I never owned my house until my mother gave me hers, so it never counted as me living on my own."

"What do you mean, on your own?"

"Without help," I say, like it should be obvious.

"Wait, you mean, in order to prove that you're a strong person, you have to be able to do all those things _and_ never lean on anyone else?"

I nod, serious. "Especially not my family; that's not what they're there for."

He blinks, his lip curling in disbelief. "If you can't show weakness to your family and you can't show it to your friends, who _do_ you show it to?"

"Uh... therapists. People who you pay to counsel you and give you medicine to help you deal with your mental issues. Or you have one or two trusted friends whom you confide in, who will advise you to see a therapist."

He just stares at me, and I realize exactly how _broken_ that system is, the paradigm I've been raised in. "Look, you can only pile so many stones on even the strongest person's back, before even they will be crushed under the weight of it. Hating yourself for having a breaking point is like hating yourself for breathing. Here's another question for you: how old was Lily Mahariel when the Blight began?"

I fidget again, crossing my legs and kicking my foot, not liking the direction this is going. I don't want to answer any more Blight questions. "Uh... I dunno, uh, twenty-nine, actually. Why?"

He nods. "And how long until the end?"

I feel my brow furrow and I look at him, trying to figure him out. "Two years. Why? Where is this going?"

He holds up a hand. "Hang on. So, she had a pretty predictable life, growing up amongst the Dalish, right?"

I shrug awkwardly, and nod. "Well, she was an orphan, but, yeah, basically. She lived with her clan, and was meaning to marry Tamlen, before everything went wrong all at once." I frown, thinking of Tamlen as I met him in the Fade, the tall and confident elf, all lean muscle and soft laughter, so sure I was his lost woman, and it tugs on the hollow spot where my heart used to be, scraping the raw edges. I shy from it, trying to focus on what Anders is telling me.

"So for her, she had two years of violence and war to live through, after a lifetime of relative peace," he concludes.

I just nod. "Yes."

He regards me seriously, his eyes resting on me almost a palpable weight. "In the office yesterday, you said that you've been through all this violence and fear for _fifteen_ years. Have you ever broken down like you did yesterday, in all that time?"

My voice deserts me, and I whisper, "Only that first night."

"And now you're tired, worn to the bone from it, right? That's what you said," he tells me and I nod, reluctantly. Dammit. I did say that, or words to that effect, at any rate. "How strong were you then, though? Those first two years?" These questions hit me like a ton of bricks, striking me speechless, because he's right: those first two years on the street, I had a clarity of purpose and I knew how to survive. He sets his hand on the edge of the bed between us, and I know he's trying to offer support, a shoulder, if I need one. "Most people would have broken ten years ago. Some wouldn't make it six months." He watches me as I chew on that and find it bitter, but calming. He's right. "You're worn so thin because you were told not to lean on anyone. Think of a tree by the ocean," he says, holding up a hand.

"One tree by itself may stand for a long time, but it's bleached out and doesn't have a whole lot of leaves, and all the branches grow in the same direction, away from the water, because of the wind, right? But when you put all of them together, into a patch of forest, the ones at the front are sheltered enough by the others being near that they can grow branches and leaves on their fronts, too. So, all you accomplish by standing alone is to prove that you can do it. It doesn't mean it's good for you, or that your life will be better for it. You're actually stronger when you let others stand beside you. Think about this: what kind of people advocate the life of the bleached out and worn tree that stands alone against all the storms, over the life of the strong and healthy tree supported by the forest? I almost wonder if you weren't raised by a deprivation cult sometimes."

This startles a laugh from me and he smiles.

"So, I need your help," he says, looking at me from the tops of his eyes, and I blink. Another subject change.

"Uh, okay, with what?"

"Do you think me weak for saying so?" he asks, and I pause, looking at him. I can tell he's watching me get it by the way his grin creeps up the side of his face.

I put a hand over my eyes and smile, my face heating up. "Ah, gods. Okay, you got me."

He chuckles. "I don't like people being cruel to my friends," he says, giving me a mock-stern look and waggling his finger. "So stop trying to repress Lily. She doesn't deserve it." I giggle, and he smiles smugly, but then takes a breath. "I wanted to say something to you, Lily, and I meant to tell you when I first came in, but things went in another direction."

I sit up, nodding. "What is it?"

"I wanted to apologise, for the part I seem to have played in all this. I never meant for anyone to assume-"

"No," I say, putting my hand over his. "Stop. You've never done anything but help me. People can think whatever they want. We know the truth, and that's just going to have to be enough. There's no way to show anyone what happened there. And... The way you've just... Listen, where I come from, there aren't any healers. You know this. What you can do, the power you use so skilfully, is like a miracle to me. That wounds erase like they were never there, that things which should have killed me are simply gone in an instant. Where I come from, I would be undergoing surgeries to repair my bones, one chip at a time, by putting them back together like a puzzle. I'd be wrapped in plaster to keep me from moving. _If_ I survived at all, and that's just from the boxes alone, when I first got here. I'd likely never walk again, be lucky to live, maybe lucky to not be drinking out of a straw, maybe be luckier if I'd died. But here... I'm just put back together, and with all the other things set right, as well."

I take a deep breath. "I remember when I first got here, and you asked me if Zev had been hurting me, I wished that I would have met you the first time, when I was still in the hands of the man who did all that, because I would have run from him to go with you in a heartbeat. I could just tell that you were serious when you said you'd keep me safe. I could see it. So when you showed up in the Fade, and the demon had me so confused, it still couldn't keep me from recognising you, because I had the same thought again. You made it possible for me to survive, to live, so many times over. I... That is a very, very huge thing for me. I trust you and respect you a great deal. So much it pierced through that thing's magic when I'd already accepted that its illusions were real."

I can see that he hears me, the seriousness in his eyes, but then he grins cheekily and sits up straighter, passing a hand down his chest. "Ah, I do try to be universally appealing," he says, but he flips his hand over and gives mine a squeeze. "It's just what I do. But I can't deny, I do have a soft spot for a pretty face when it comes with a pretty mind, as well. Look, I didn't do all that for the Commander, or for Zevran, I did it for you. When he brought you in here, at first it was just instinct, you know, but once I saw what damage you had been through- Andraste's mercy, the extent of what had been done, Lily- There was no way I couldn't help. You couldn't survive all of that just to end by a mistake of fate." We sit there in a moment of understanding between us, while I take comfort from his presence, and then I sigh.

"So, I have to get going," he says after a time, rising, startling me, and I stand up with him. "But I want you to remember something: I don't have any idea who this Lily Mahariel person was; I've just heard stories. The only Lily I've ever met is you." He squeezes my hand again, and I realize he's still holding it at the moment he lets go.

Everything, guarding me, saving me, healing me, he's done it for _me_. For some reason, that distinction is really important and profound, and it makes me love him with the deepest sort of familial gratitude. He truly is the big brother I always wished for, even without the magic.

I hold my breath for a second, deliberating, then reach out and hug him suddenly, wrapping my arms around his waist. His arms rise from his sides in surprise, and then he laughs, hugging me back. "Thank you," I whisper.

He nods, giving me a squeeze, then steps back once more, smiling. "Any time, Lily," he says, opening the door, and I wave.

"G'night Anders."

Looking back at the trunk, I sigh heavily, but I feel lighter. Standing up again, I look around at the things I've pulled out, chewing my lip. Most of it can go back in, but I think I'll keep the box of jewellery out. I set it on a table and go back to the trunk. All these things, vestiges of a life I know about very well, but do not know at all. These things are mine, these memories are mine, but this life... wasn't. My eye falls on the pouch of silver, laying there so innocently next to my clothes, and I can feel my mouth twist again. And there's my payment for it.

So cold. Oh gods, so cold.

Snatching it up quickly, I drop it into the trunk and slam the lid.


	24. One Day Like This

I've been captured again. There is blood everywhere. Things are dark and hazy, I can barely feel anything outside of a constant, wracking pain that washes over me in sickening waves. Nearby, someone is moaning in agony, and it takes me a moment before I realize I know that voice. It's Zev. I turn my head, see him hanging in chains, dripping and tattered. My heart, oh my heart, and I can't stop them. The figures gather around us, around him, hurting him again and again, and I have to watch as he cries out from it, crying for me.

"No!" I scream, but my voice is hoarse. "No! Stop! I'll do anything, anything, just stop! No more, please!" I dissolve into incoherent begging, sobbing for the way he's been treated.

"You can't protect him now," someone whispers. I turn my head to look, and it's Tommy, he's the one who's been hurting us, he's going to take Zev away from me, kill him, and kill me at the same time, because he can, because he wants to hurt me. He comes closer, leering, knife in hand and covered in blood up to his elbows. "Trying to take things you haven't any right to. I'll show you what happens to whores," he says, and the knife descends between my legs, even as I scream, and I can't move because something is holding me down. The knife sears into my flesh as he rams it home with vicious ferocity, and I scream again, a mortal cry. The pain-!

I sit bolt upright, strange shapes hulking in the darkness, sweating and confused, still screaming. I try to catch my breath, try to remember where I am, my heart hammering in my chest as I skitter across the bed, and then there is a pounding on the door, making me shriek again and fall to the floor.

"Lily!"

I gasp, the sound of that voice pulling me immediately scrambling toward it, to dash across the room and yank the door open. Ponka comes barrelling through, pulling the door from my hand as he shoulders it out of the way and Alistair stands there on the threshold, looking worried, but I only have a moment to register these things before I simply continue hurtling forward, fetching up against his chest and wrapping my arms around his waist tightly.

I'm trembling, my breath coming in gasping heaves as the blood thunders in my ears, adrenaline still coursing through me. I feel him lean toward the wall, hear a slight sound of metal against stone, then his arms come around me, folding me in warmth and strength as I whimper, trying to get a grip.

Because of one nightmare or another, a scene like this has played itself out two or three times a week, every week, for the last year since I lost Zevran, except for tonight. Tonight, the dream was exponentially worse, and I've actually thrown myself into Alistair's arms. Now he's laid his sword aside to run his hands up and down my back soothingly. "Shhh... Whatever it was, it was just a dream," he murmurs softly. "You're safe... I've got you..."

I take deep breaths, finally managing to stop shaking quite so much, and open my eyes. Dawn is just now greying through the windows, and I can smell jasmine in the air; it's the same time of year as That Night. The smell of jasmine will never mean the same thing to me again. Gods, no wonder I was dreaming about it. The next thing I'm aware of is that my cheek is pressed directly to his skin, and I can hear his heart beating rather hard. Alistair and I, between us, have one full set of clothing: he's wearing breeches, and I'm only wearing my flannel, which, since it's big on me now, covers my butt when I'm just standing around. With my arms around his waist, however, it isn't covered by half, and I take a moment to be grateful that I'm actually wearing panties as I step back, suddenly extremely self-conscious, and he lets me go, though I can feel the reluctance in him, his hands sliding around my waist. I cover my mouth with my sleeve-cuff, and the heat in my face tells me it's bright flaming red. It doesn't escape my notice how large his hands are compared to my waist.

"Uh." I cough, clearing my throat. "Sorry..." I realize I'm staring at his stomach, and my eyes careen away to look down the hall, then at my toes. He's barefoot, too. I must have dragged him out of bed. His hand raises in my peripheral, and I close my eyes so I won't flinch when he slides his fingers into my hair, pulling it away from the side of my face and tucking it over my ear, then look up at him, trying to skip seeing the part in between. Too much skin. Not safe.

"Stop apologising," he says, voice still quiet. His thumb strokes softly across my cheekbone, just once, then he swallows, hand falling away. "I'm glad you're all right." His voice has returned to its normal tone, and I try on a tremulous smile.

"Uh... Yeah, I'm okay. Just a little shaky." I shiver, giving the lie to my bravado, but he lets it pass. He knows. "Uhm... I have to... get dressed and stuff. I should probably get a jump on the day, y'know..." I say, gesturing vaguely over my shoulder. He nods, picking up his sword again, and I watch his shoulders flex as he carries it, easily as I do a hammer, but I know that the thing is so heavy, I can only lift it with both hands.

I don't realize I'm still staring at him until he straightens and catches me at it, the weight of his gaze pinning me there like a startled hare. He knows. He knows that he gives me issues, and I know I give him issues, too. There's always this strain between us.

He told me one night over chess that now he's met me, some of the things Mahariel said make a little more sense. He overheard a conversation I wrote for Zevran and me, after the Return to Ostagar mission. I was talking about pain and fear, how I hated feeling weak and helpless, and how I'd never felt any kind of safety.

Alistair just shook his head. "That didn't make any sense, because she _was_ strong. She was never helpless; she always knew what she was about, especially in battle. She charged through the attack on the tower with a single-minded drive I'd _never_ seen on anyone else. And... it didn't match with what she said about her childhood. She _was_ safe, with her clan. There were lots of little things like that, things that just didn't quite... match. But I left it alone, because there were other things to do, and... she'd pushed me away."

The look he gave me then was hard to swallow, so direct, and I realize he'd been paying a kind of attention to the things I said that no one else was, not even me. I didn't realize how some of the things I put in there as dialogue didn't mesh with her character... and even some of the things she did. The dress designs in Orzammar - Leliana showed them to me, and even though I didn't have any hand in them, Lily Mahariel was drawing Pre-Raphaelite and Grecian designs. At some point, I must have been thinking about it, even if I didn't put it down on paper, and it happened.

"Lily," he says, softly. I realize abruptly that I've just been standing here, staring at him, thinking all these things in a an instant, and blink, feeling the blood rush to my face. He shakes his head, chuckling under his breath, and gives me a smirk, a little bit knowing around the edges. "Don't forget to eat." He turns, strolling back down the hall, whistling, leaving me there to writhe around in my own skin.

Ponka sits proud guard right in the centre of the bed when I turn around; I laugh and he grins, tongue flopping out. I shut the door and get dressed by the uncertain light filtering through the window, my hands still shaking.

A year. It's already been a year.

His loss ceased to cut me as spring wore into summer, as I focused on just trying to survive the heat and keep working at the same time. As the summer pushed into fall, I met with a keen-eyed smith that Wade sent us, Donal. He's been a constant source of ideas and innovation, and the shop that is now understood to be shared between myself and Brizio turns out unparalleled work. He was particularly interested in my ruler; suddenly having a consistent unit of measure that could be reliably transferred from person to person, and from piece to piece, has tightened up everything, and made our jobs a lot easier.

I introduced Alistair, Anders, and Leliana to chess, and pretty soon I had requests for sets to take down to the Warden hall, so in between projects I turned out four basic sets with painted boards. Not like the one I ultimately made just for Alistair. That one has an inlaid board with two different woods for the squares and a third for the frame, and each piece was individually carved into unique figures. The spring court is stained honey coloured, all of them in flowing garb that hangs and drapes gracefully, and their warriors are sort of Spartan-ish. Their queen and king are kind of icy in their beauty, and lean from the winter. The fall court are dark cherry, and wear more voluminous garb with decorative trim and fitted waists, and their warriors are more formal knights. Their king and queen look kinder, and are a little rounder from the harvest. All the knights have sword and shield, and all of the pieces, every single one, has a different face, is a different person.

I... may have gone a little overboard.

I try not to examine that too closely.

I wanted Anders to like the game, and there aren't any Catholics here, so, instead of bishops, I called them mages. "Mages can go anywhere they want, but only in a diagonal line, because they have to stay on their own colour," I said, and he laughed, but wouldn't explain.

I've changed a lot of things, almost by accident. I went to see a cobbler about my boots, hoping to get a reasonable facsimile, and ended up with a pair that looks almost exactly the same, except they're stacked wood heels and leather soles. They're totally great, really, and I get to work in boots that fit me right and give me better traction in the shop. I even got them to do the little scalloped spectator line along the toebox, and dye them black for me.

The second month, I cornered Alistair about my living here, and told him I wasn't going to be a moocher, which is why I'm working, but I also want to have some cash, and I refuse to spend a single coin of that blood money Zevran gave me. So since then, I've had a paycheck, basically, same as all the other Wardens and household, which gives me a sense of independence that I've needed.

Brizio finally convinced me to go down to the docks with him toward the end of fall to look at the different woods available from the importers and local vendors, and I came away completely broke, much to his amusement. I don't have to pay for much, just the things I choose to do, because room and board is covered, but I run myself pretty close to the line, between all the commissions for Donal and my expensive taste in wood.

Leliana fell in love with my ruler, and I made her a measuring tape. She immediately began grilling me about fashions I preferred from home, and so now we spend a couple hours every few days over one meal or another sketching designs. I'm her guinea pig for just about everything, the upshot of which is that I now have several pairs of jeans, which is really nice, since I'm rough on them. She made them out of sailcloth at first, but then when my original pair finally fell apart, I gave her the fabric and she took it down to Vitanza. They now turn out the best denim I've ever seen, and it seems to be catching on with tailors who make working people's clothes.

And so fall wore on into bitter winter and I missed my modern conveniences as I huddled under blankets and worked in the shop with fingerless gloves that I got Lels to make me. Too many nights of boredom, though, so I ended up making a deck of plain cards, and teaching everyone to play rummy. And then I made the mistake of making a cribbage board, and ended up having to make fifteen more for all the Wardens, much to Alistair's amusement, along with decks of cards to go with them, and that took up the rest of the winter.

Time slipped away from me, day by day and week by week, in a haze of things that needed doing today and what could be put off until tomorrow, things that needed making now, and things I couldn't afford until next month, piece by piece building up the shop to some semblance of working order. The evenings floated by with Leliana's songs and stories, games by the fire and long nights of philosophical debate with Alistair and Anders, where they'd be going for hours long after I fell asleep face-first on the desk or leaning against Alistair's shoulder. I taught the Wardens how to play checkers, chess, cribbage, and rummy and sang them songs sometimes, when two or three of them could get me alone in the dining hall and I thought there might not be anyone else listening.

I've been a little self-conscious about it since the day I made Angelo cry when I sang, "The Unquiet Grave". Of course he didn't cry. Soldiers don't cry. (But he totally did.)

I'm lacing my boots, all these thoughts flitting through my head, when I realize today's the day Brizio and I are supposed to go down to the docks to meet a new supplier from Seheron.

"Ooh, snap, I better get a move on," I mutter, and Ponka hops to his feet. I grab my bag and head down to the Wardens' hall to catch an early breakfast. All the men are out in force, and the smell of coffee and meat pies permeates the air, making my mouth water. I pick up some munching supplies, stuffing a hunk of bread and an apple in my bag, then grab a meat pie, holding it horizontally in my teeth while I pick up a coffee mug and the pot.

"_Ehi_," a voice says, rising above the din, from one corner of the room. "_Ehi_, Lily!" I raise my mug, by way of saying I hear them, then fill it up before wriggling my way through the crowd to the other side of the table.

Three men are crouched over a cribbage board and I see they still have two hands up. "What's up?"

Angelo points accusingly at Raffaello. "Tell him about his nibs," he says, serious as anything, as though I need to make a pronouncement about someone's execution, and I laugh.

I sit down next to them, putting my cup in front of me and grabbing the pot of honey from the centre of the table. "Dealer turns a jack, it's called his nibs, and dealer takes two points," I say, and Raffaello grumbles. I see that these two points mean the difference between whether or not Angelo's got him skunked, and smile. "Sorry, looks like he's gonna skunk you," I say with a small shrug. "Just be careful how you count your cards, yeah? I can play you at dinner if you want, see how you're doing your strategy." Raffaello nods, grimacing at his cards, and I lean over, looking at his hand. He goes to play a ten on the count, and I stop him. "No, no don't do that. Because look, all he has to do is play one of these, and you've got him making points off your back," I say, pointing at a five. "And everyone saves those. So play this instead," I say, pointing at the six. He's got a six, a nine, a ten, and a five. Not bad.

Raffaello looks happier having got through the count with fewer mishaps than usual, apparently. I need to play him some more. He counts his hand at four points and I sigh. "No, no muggins, Angelo. Raffaello, you're forgetting to use the up card. Look, it's worth ten, so that's two more points off your five, and then you get a straight, three points, nine, ten, jack. That's five points you would have missed." Raffaello, impressed at how I apparently magicked a four-point hand into nine, grins happily and pegs his points triumphantly, which is nice because Angelo's only got a four-point hand, himself. He kills on the crib, though, but it's Raffaello's deal next, so who knows what might happen.

I don't have time to find out; I have to get moving. Clapping Angelo on the shoulder, I mumble, "Be nice," stuffing another bite of pie in my mouth and giving him a wink as he snorts. He's been known to get irritated enough with other Wardens during a game of cribbage that he'll skunk them on purpose. You don't lay coin against Angelo winning, but those who manage to beat him end up strutting about like peacocks. It's hilarious. I love the Wardens.

Scarfing down the last of my pastie, I am striding across the courtyard and chugging honeyed coffee when I hear a scamper behind me and turn just in time to not be run over by Schmooples, being exuberantly chased by Ponka. He arrived here a few months ago, along with a cat named Ser Pounce-a-Lot who now seems to be living in Anders' pocket, after a very careful and laborious overland trip. Apparently nugs can't be sent by ship, or they'll die, and Pounce was sent along so neither of them would get lonely. Ponka loves Schmooples like a puppy. It's adorable. Schmoopie - as I call him - throws himself on the ground and squeals like he's being murdered with a dramatic flailing of limbs, but the moment Ponka stops and sniffs at him to make sure he's okay, Schmoopie jumps up and bops Ponka under the chin with the top of his head, then bounces circles around my big hound before taking off again.

Leliana comes out of a side hall, looking around, concerned, and I laugh. "Schmoopie is so severely abused, he had to make sure Ponka knew where he was headed next," I call out.

"He's so excitable," she says, giggling, and I grin back as she comes to stand next to me.

"He's fuzzy though, so that makes up for it," I assure her. "Whatcha got?" I ask, leaning toward her, because I can see some figures drawn on the papers in her hand.

"Ooh!" she exclaims, like she's just remembered, and drags me over to a bench. "Look!" she says, pushing them into my hands, as I sit. "How do I get a straight curve on that?" she asks, then laughs. "Oh, you know what I mean, don't you?" she asks, and I grin. Chugging half my coffee, I dig around in my bag - my ever-present bag of everything - pulling out a charcoal stick.

"Look-" I say, sketching out the pattern for her "- and then you cut it on the bias like this- right- so then it hangs like that- 'cause you have to account for the way it curves outward, here." Man, she has got such a good eye for fabrics. I love collaborating with her, even though I can't really get too hands-on with it. She's talking about maybe selling a few of her designs. I'm kind of scared of what I'm releasing on the world, sometimes, but I can't really help it. "I love the dagged sleeves," I say, my finger hovering over the lines, tracing the graceful sweeps.

"I was playing chess with Alistair last night," she says archly, and I blush, but I dip my head so my hair swings down to cover it. The way she says that... I clear my throat, tucking the pencil away. "And I was looking at the clothes on the queens and mages," she continues blithely on, but I can hear the smug smile in her voice. Oh gods. No, don't think about it.

"Yeah? Who won?"

"Hmm... He did," she says casually, and I bite my lip on a grin. He beat me the third time we played, and the only person he ever loses to now is Anders; though Lels beat him a few times before, she can't seem to anymore.

I cough, taking a drink of my coffee to cover it up, then hold up the sketches again. "Uhm. So yeah, uh, what about this other one?" She laughs, and I know, I am so not sneaky.

About what?

Nothing. We talk about her plan for the afternoon, which makes me look up at the sky. "Ah, I've got to get going," I say, shaking myself and handing back her papers. "I'm going down to the docks with Brizio. New supplier from Seheron, seems very promising," I say, and she grins. "Mmh, oh, I almost forgot. I gotta go back up to my room and get something I can pawn off in the market. I'm broke after that last commission from Donal," I say, finishing off my coffee and standing up.

"You know, I'm sure you could get Alistair to-" she begins, but I shake my head, trying to take a drink out of an empty cup and sighing.

"Nope. Not how it works. My pursuits, my coin. Anyway, I saved like, three silver bowls. I have no idea why, because they're all boring. But they should convert to coin very nicely, right? And from there, into wood. Yesss," I say, savouring the idea. Seheron woods are hard to get hold of; this will be my first opportunity to see any. I wonder if they have anything like mahogany. Mmmm... mahogany... "Right, well, if they're gonna have anything good, I've got to get there early, right? And I want to see this red wood they say they've got. I love red woods." Leliana clasps my hand as I turn, and I give her another smile.

"Don't forget to eat," she says, and I laugh, shaking my head ruefully.

"Got it," I say, patting my bag. This is what I get for working whole days without remembering meals, and then having dizzy spells and not knowing why. In my defence, it was the middle of summer, and I was too hot to think about eating, so I just stayed hydrated. At least I didn't drop from heat stroke, right? Right.

Leliana squeaks, and I turn around just in time to see Schmoopie's little butt disappearing under the edge of her skirt. Ponka comes trotting up behind him, then stops when he sees Leliana. Lels gives him a narrow-eyed look, an 'I dare you to try it, dog' look, and he huffs, sitting down and looking proudly off into some other distance, like that was his plan all along.

I laugh and head out of the courtyard, stopping back through the kitchen to hand off my mug before striding down the hallways to my room, Ponka trotting along by my side. Opening the door, I duck out from under the strap on my bag, leaving it on the table at the foot of my bed and head to the trunk, now covered with a cloth and set up as my altar. I haven't opened this trunk all year. Before I'm quite aware of what I'm doing, I'm on my knees in front of it, setting things aside, and sweeping the cloth away; I open the catches, lift the lid.

Rosemary.

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Lavender and sweetgrass, too.

Not my scent, exactly, but one I have worn. One I love. I look down at all the things laying there in a jumble, and my eye falls on the pouch of Zevran's silver there, in the centre of it all. _Everything, anything from his hands_, I once thought. Oh gods. The memory of his hands is so strong in me, with a clarity that steals my breath and rocks me forward, a physical reaction that makes me sob with sudden and fierce longing, like he only left five minutes ago, shocking me to my core. The trunk slams shut in the next instant, and the horrible feeling of soul-eating despair suddenly cuts off, leaving me numb and dazed. I look up into the very serious face of Ponka, standing on the trunk, holding it closed.

I take deep breaths, putting a hand to my head, feeling a round of crying pounding at my eyes. I don't have time for this... I don't want this. No, please, I've looked away for so long, I've walked so far from there. Please...

I swallow thickly. Logic dictates that I do need something out of there to sell. By the laws of magic I've had to force myself to accept as reality, something that snaps on and off like that isn't just my imagination. Stumbling to my feet, I put my arms around Ponka's neck and hug him tightly. "Thank you. You're such a good dog, and I love you very much," I choke out, and then I do cry on him after all, because I can, and he'll never tell, and he loves me forever anyway. He's not a person, but he still puts his arm around me, and sometimes that's important.

I haven't cried about him in months. I swore to myself sometime mid-summer, as I sweat out the hours in the shop, that I wouldn't give that man another one of my tears. It's over and done, and he never returned, so that should say a lot, shouldn't it. He knows where I am.

But whatever magic is in that pouch just brought it all back.

It takes me more than a moment to collect myself, but I manage to get my face washed and put myself back together. I can't let that fester there. I need those bowls. Anders should be in the clinic by now, so I head down there, taking deep breaths and trying not to be too shaken by the force of the emotions that just ripped through me. I'm mostly under control when I arrive, and lean against the door jamb, waiting for him to look up from his book.

He takes a breath like he's about to tell me something, then pauses, eyeing my face. "What happened?" he asks, and I shift uncomfortably.

Being an open book is really difficult when the people around you are used to reading faces for one reason or another.

"Ah, well. There's something living in my trunk." He arches an eyebrow and I slouch a little bit, gesturing over my shoulder guiltily. "I need you to come look at it. I'm afraid it's going to eat me. And I think I might've been feeding it by accident."

His brows furrow and he looks at me suspiciously. "It's not another spider, is it?"

I giggle, but it's strained. "No... Ran myself head-first into a brick wall made of magic. I'm not... exactly in a happy place right now."

Both his eyebrows are up now, and I know I've got his attention. He turns around, grabs his bag, and stands up. I straighten quickly and turn as he falls into step beside me. Sometimes the way people react to me freaks me out. "How do you think you were feeding it?"

"Well... I had set my altar up on it," I begin, and he smacks his forehead. "No, wait! It shouldn't have mattered, because it's supposed to be tied to the cloth," I say, and he just shakes his head. I bite my lip, feeling really stupid, because... well, yeah, there's magic stuff in there, but I tend to think of the box as being a barrier, and... I didn't think there was anything dangerous inside. "Okay, well, so here. I took everything off," I say, opening the door again. Ponka is still sitting there. "Ponka jumped up on it and closed it, and it cut off immediately," I tell him, and he turns, looking back at me.

"What did?"

Oh. "Uh, I opened the trunk because I was thinking, you know, I might have something in there I could... uh... There's a new supplier from Seheron, and I'm skint," I say pleadingly, and he laughs.

"And?"

"Oh! And, so I opened it and it was-" I can't even say his name anymore. It burns me. Shit, and I know I've just gone pale, too. "Like a hammer," I whisper.

He frowns, and Ponka carefully shifts himself off the lid as Anders comes closer to the trunk. "I think we need Alistair here, just in case there's a demon in there," he says, chewing his lip.

"No!" Anders looks up at me, startled by my outburst, and I blush. "I mean, no, no, we can't, because-" I swallow. "It- It's about-" I close my eyes, my lips forming the word by which my days are numbered, no matter what I may have to say about it. "-Zevran." I swallow again. Just saying his name again conjures a flood of images and feelings, taking my breath away. "It's just... so strong. It- It tried to eat me." My hands are shaking, and I tuck them into my armpits.

He studies me carefully, brow furrowed, then comes over and wraps me in his arms, hugging me tightly. "It's going to be okay, Lily," he says, and I close my eyes briefly, leaning on him for a moment. I take a deep breath and nod, feeling a little calmer. "Do you want to wait in the hall?"

I nod again, a little too quickly, and he steps back to give me room to flee. After a few moments, the door opens again, and he shrugs, looking confused. "I don't see anything," he says, "Nothing that would do what you've felt, anyway. So, it might be tied just to you, but I have an idea. I'm thinking I'll put a shield around you, and _you_ can open the chest again. We'll see then if anything jumps out." I take another deep breath, nod yet again, and he puts his hand on my shoulder. "Hey." I look up, realizing that it's not just my hands shaking, my shoulders hunched, and the look of worry on his face is eloquent. "I'll be with you, every step of the way."

Oh gods, oh gods please. Not this again. I was past it, I was done. I haven't thought about this in months. I don't want to think about it. Oh gods. Zev... Anders has me stand in front of the trunk, and a pale sphere of light flashes into being around me. I kneel, slowly, dreading this, and put my hands to the edge of the trunk. I can feel Anders standing right behind me, the edge of his robe brushing against my back giving me heart, and flip open the lid with one swift push. The feeling assails me again, but more muted this time. It still punches me in the heart, makes me double up in pain with a strangled cry.

"Zev-" His name is dragged from my very core, and I wonder how I was ever fooling myself that I could let go of him. That I wanted to. "Oh gods-" I press my hands over my stomach, and I feel like I might retch for a very disorienting and uncomfortable moment, and then Anders' hands splay across my shoulders, spreading that artificial calm that he can sometimes induce in me, making it easier for me to breathe. Zev, oh, his hands, his kiss, the heat of his skin against mine and the smell of his neck, the softness of his hair and the way his shoulders flex, the dark burr of his voice when I-

"The shield clearly isn't helping much... Can you feel where it's coming from?" he asks quietly, and I nod, jerky. My arm stretches out, pointing, and I know I've pointed straight at the pouch, without looking, when he picks it up. The source of the drag changes position as the pouch moves, and I know that we've got the right of it. There's something about that money. Maybe because it's payment, because it changed who we were.

"Oh gods..." -the way he makes me writhe when he slides his fingers within me, the sound of his purr in my ear, the length of his leg against mine, all that coiled muscle and grace-

"What's in here?" Anders asks. I'm still blinded by the way it hurts, an old wound that had finally healed over suddenly ripped open and hollowed out, bleeding and raw like no time has passed at all.

"Silver," I reply, gagging on it. "Personal message. Very cold." -the length of his stride as we walk together, his arm around my waist a protective weight and the splay of his hand across my hip-

"This comes from him?" he asks, and I nod. I hear the sound of spilling silver and the feeling intensifies. -_Moglie mia_ in my ear, his voice dark with desire- I cry out sharply, almost being dragged across the floor as I crawl toward the bed without wanting to, without meaning to. -"Ah, _cara_, how you drive a man..." and I sat on the desk for him- "There's something in the bottom of the pouch," he mutters, then notices me crawling up on his side. "Hey-" he says, cautious, a warning note in his voice, but I can't stop.

-On the beach, that shivering bass string that was struck between us, an indestructible bond-

"Show me," I whisper raggedly, looking up at him, and his face softens, changes with worry and sympathy. In his hand there is a folded piece of parchment with a bulge in the centre. My arm lifts, reaches out for it without my direction, and Anders takes a step back.

"Are you sure?" he asks, eyeing the silver, and the sorry state of me.

-My husband-

"No," I whisper, one hand pressed to my breast. "But I have to." This terrifies me. I want him, my Zev, with a longing so complete I can feel it in my bones. His absence is _wrong_.

Anders' eyes narrow and he looks at me from the side of them. "You only say that about things that involve him. You _don't_ have to. You don't have to open up all those wounds again and be sucked back into his life. You can leave whatever this is unread, and it won't make a bit of difference, because you've been living your life just fine this past year without it." He keeps backing up, one step at a time, watching me carefully as I am forced to crawl after him, one jerking movement after another. His face transforms with grim determination, and he shakes his head emphatically.

"No, no. Lily, this definitely isn't right. I'm not going to let this thing, whatever it is, drag you around like that. I'm getting it away from you." Quickly, before I have any time to react, he ducks out the door with it, and is gone. Just like that, the hold it has on me snaps, and having been pulling so hard against it, the loss of any opposition has me falling over backward. The flood of pain stops.

Ponka lays down next to me as I curl up, right there on the floor, the ragged hole in my chest leaking my soul's blood all over the floor, and sob half-hysterically into his fur.

Oh gods. I was okay, I was fine, and then I opened the trunk, and it's like this year never even happened. That magic screamed at me, everything that has been worn away under the rhythm of my life here brought back with eviscerating clarity and leaving me feeling like I'm a puppet just thrown against the wall.

I don't remember that I've left the door open until I hear boots on the stone and Ponka lifts his head at someone's entrance. I can't look up. Ponka hasn't tried to move, so there's no threat. So I don't have to. I turn my face further away, my hair falling over it, but a large, warm hand rests on my shoulder a moment later, and I know I don't have the energy to hide much longer.

"Hey," Alistair whispers. Oh gods; I've dragged him away from his day, all the things he needs to be doing, just to come in here and take care of me. I mean to speak, I mean to tell him I'm okay, but what comes out instead is a choked-off, quiet wail of despair. In the next moment, his hand covers mine, fingers lacing together, and I grip tightly. He draws my arm away from Ponka, slowly gathering me up and pulling me into his chest. I curl against him, taking comfort in his strength in a way I haven't allowed myself since Zev first left me. I didn't dare. I haven't so much as hugged the man, not since that day. Not until this morning... and not like this.

It _has_ been easy. Things have been quiet, stable. I've never known a year like this. I have had the best time of my life, the most productive, the most filled with laughter. All at his hands. These hands. Peace. Patience. Constancy, and insight, and wit. Intelligence, charm, and strength. Oh gods.

_Aphrodite preserve me; what has happened to my heart? Why must you show me that it is he who put it back together, and Zevran who has torn it asunder again?_ I can't. I can't. I'd be unfaithful, it wouldn't be fair to-

My heart thuds dangerously as I can't even allow myself to continue that train of thought. That's the point of this agony, isn't it?

Unfaithful to whom?

He's gone.

The magic conjured in me an emotion that I have laid aside, to live this life, and it is one in which I am happy and useful and loved, one where I've become part of a family. From _these_ hands. Hands that have just picked me up off the floor, where the memory of Zevran has put me again, to brush my hair out of my face and rub my back, to hold me, and try to make me whole. I press my face into his shirt, my arm sliding up his chest as I return the embrace, and I make the mistake of taking a deep breath through my nose.

He smells like cedar, and rain, and the ocean.

He smells like _home_, back and away across an impossible distance, forever unreachable, the Washington coast. Forest and sea and sky.

Something else inside me breaks, but it is a small thing, a quiet thing, and behind it, instead of a rush of pain, there is just a quietness, a wave of relief. All the tension flows out of me at once, and I close my eyes, finally able to catch my breath.

Oh gods.

_No, don't look at it! Don't look at how you made that chess set for him, just to watch his face light up with each new figure. The first thing you made. The way you laboured over the pieces to make sure each one was different, because you knew he'd notice. Don't look at how every game you brought out, you taught him first. Don't look at the way you turned out that first deck of cards as an art piece, and then gave them to him. Don't look at how he is the first one to see all your sketches for how to bring modern things into this world. Don't look at how you always try to get to dinner early enough that you'll be there when he is. Don't look at how he makes you blush. Don't look at the way he looks at you, and how he always shows up at your door, every time you wake up screaming, with his sword in his hand, just in case this time it _isn't_ just a nightmare, even after a year. Don't look at his tired eyes and know that he wouldn't have to keep running down the hall every night if you would just-_

Oh gods.

_No! Shut up, shut up!_

He holds me closer, and I realize I'm shaking again. He's just been here for me, steady as ever, and still picks me up off the floor, even knowing that I won't ever-

I take another breath.

Cedar and rain and the ocean, and safe, and _home_.

So easy.

So dangerous.

_Home_.

"Alistair," I whisper, and it doesn't burn me. It doesn't hurt. Slowly, I turn my face up, my cheek rubbing against his chest, and it makes my breath catch. His neck is right next to my mouth, my nose, and I take another shaking breath. _Home_.

"Lily," he says, voice low and strained. "I'm not made of stone."

My eyes squeeze tightly shut as my heart thuds heavily. "I know," I whisper, "I know. I'm sorry." I can feel the resignation settle onto his shoulders like a heavy weight, even as I am leaning up to press my lips to the side of his neck, softly. He stills, frozen on the moment, and then his arms tighten around me.

"You don't have to do that," he whispers hoarsely, and my mouth pulls into a grimace. Have I come this far, only to realize too late?

"I know... Is it- Is it okay if I want to?" I ask, my voice so tiny, the only moment where I have actually been afraid of what might come from him.

"You- want- to?" he asks, and I feel his throat flex. I wrap my arm more fully around his neck, pressing against him, and he sucks in a breath, fingers flexing against my shoulder, my hip. "Wow," he breathes, "Lily..." His arms slide around me in a _much_ more intimate way as he buries his face in my neck, pulling me up flush against him. I sigh softly, feeling safe, loved, wanted, _needed_. But most of all, peaceful.

"Not everything has to be hard and complicated," I say, quoting, maybe paraphrasing him, and he draws back, looking down at me, hazel eyes pinning me, searching my face, making me blush. I suddenly want him to kiss me, very, very much. "This last year with you has been easy as breathing."

He swallows again, and the sudden intensity in his eyes makes my heart skip. "If you- If you let me hold you, Lily, I have to tell you: I'm not going to want to let go."

A little bird takes flight in my stomach and becomes trapped beneath my breast. I gasp. No lie. Oh gods, no lie.

His fingers are gentle as he smooths my hair off my forehead, tucking a lock of it behind my ear, and I realize he's had a way of doing that, all year, just casually moving my hair away so he can see me, now that it's grown down to my shoulders again, and I hide in it. Always, he touches the top edge of my ear, rounded, not pointed. He sees me. Never mind what came before. I don't have to be anyone other than myself, I don't have to do anything more than what I already do, to be at his side. I don't have to pay for it, I don't have to fight for it. It's just my place to take, if I want it.

I've already been holding it all year.

Easy as breathing.

Oh gods.

His hand still hovers near my cheek as we pause, eyes locked, and I can feel the warmth radiating from it. _These_ hands. Reaching up, I catch it; turning my face, I close my eyes and press my cheek into his palm. My hands are rougher than his. He's got a lot of callus, sure, but it's all worn smooth. His shield hand.

"I'm kind of crazy and broken," I murmur. "Are you sure you want that?"

"You think I don't know that?" he asks gently, voice low with humour. "I'm more worried about what you're sure _you_ want," he says, much more seriously and I squeeze my eyes shut tightly.

"I've never felt more myself than I have, than I do, here," I tell him, but part of me is beginning to feel rejected, beginning to wonder if I've made a mistake that is going to cost us a very golden friendship. "If every year I have left could be half so happy as this I have had with you, I could die satisfied. But overshadowing everything is the threat of any random moment being my last. I don't want to waste any more of them aching for the past." The pad of his thumb slowly strokes over the width of my lower lip, and I freeze. He pauses at the corner of my mouth, then circles back, even more slowly and softly along the line of my upper lip, as well, and my breath catches.

"Then tell me, Lily. Tell me what you want," he says, and I can feel the tension of tightly controlled emotion in him. "Say the words."

I take a deep breath, opening my eyes and looking up at him, meeting his gaze, and my heart thuds. The fierceness that ignites there, oh gods, and the fear that I'm just playing with him, it hits me hard. I'm not playing. Oh, he reminds me of Papa in all the ways that make me love him, oh gods, and I do. I do. I have, for a really long time.

With shaking hand, I reach up, tracing a trembling line along his cheekbone and down the sweep of his jaw, the stubble of his shadow prickling my fingertips. I love this life. I want to keep it. I want to touch, and be touched, to love and be loved, and for that to be enough. For that to fill up my nights, and not be painful, not be hard to bear, hard to earn. I want the gentleness in his touch and the heat of his skin; I want to know exactly what that strength feels like under my hands and what his voice sounds like in my ear.

"Don't let go," I whisper, seeing the depth of my own vulnerability in his eyes. I want to erase it. I want him to erase mine.

He takes a deep breath and bends his head, brow furrowing as he rests his forehead against mine, and I can feel his hand tremble, oh so slightly, as it slides into my hair. "Why now? What's changed?" he whispers, the warmth of his breath washing across my lips, and my heart thuds again.

Truth. Just the truth. "Something in the trunk had powerful magic on it," I say, and I want to lick my lips, but I can't, not with how close he is, and my breath shakes. "It brought back all the pain, all that ragged bloody wound, in an instant. I felt like a puppet, like a slave to it, and it didn't stop until Anders took whatever it was away. I haven't thought about it, or him, or any of it, since last summer. And then it showed up and totally ruined my day... or... that's what I was thinking... and then you came... It's you here with me, picking me up off the ground again, bringing peace with you again, and- and you... You smell like _home_," I whisper.

His breath hitches. "What does home smell like, Lily?"

I don't have to hesitate, to think about it. "Wind and rain, ocean and cedar, this certain wood-" I start, only to be interrupted by his lips pressing against mine firmly, and I gasp, shocked to stillness for a moment as his fingers flex, tangling in my hair, making me whimper. In the next moment I'm completely melting with a soft sigh, my hand sliding over his shoulder and up his neck to stroke the side of his face as his tongue wraps around mine, kissing me breathless as I crush myself against him, a whole flock of butterflies taking flight from my stomach and swirling around under my skin.

He kisses me so long, so thoroughly, that I grow dizzy from it, intoxicated by the heady rush of his desire for me and my own burgeoning desire for him, both long denied. At last he breaks away, pressing me to his shoulder and hugging me fiercely, and I wrap my arms around his neck, suddenly bursting into tears. He jumps, not having expected this reaction, and I laugh through them, not slacking my hold in the slightest.

"Lily, Lily, what did I do? Why are you crying?" he asks helplessly, and I laugh again.

"Oh gods, no, just overflow," I say, cuddling closer. "Can't hold it all in. Such... Such a relief."

"A relief? Oh, oh that's romantic. You're not very good at this whole seduction thing, are you?" he teases gently, settling me more comfortably in his lap, and I giggle, but then he's kissing me again, softer, less demanding this time, stopping my tears and drawing a soft whimper from me as I arch, instinctively trying to get closer. His finger curls under my chin, thumb pressing to the ball of it as he draws back, and I open my eyes to look at him from just inches away, his hazel eyes writing themselves on my tattered scrap of heart. There may not be much of it left these days, but what I have, it's his, and if I have any at all, it's only because of him.

He sighs heavily, brow furrowing, and rests his forehead against mine as he closes his eyes. "I wish I could say I don't have anything that can't wait for tomorrow, but I _have_ to meet with the guard today to discuss rotas and wages for the next year. You know, all the fun parts," he says, voice resigned, and I laugh under my breath, running my fingers through his hair.

We've changed the nature of our relationship, but it doesn't change the way he talks to me, it doesn't change who we are when we're together. This, too, is a relief. My hand sweeps down the back of his head and forward again, and I kiss him softly as my hand trails off the edge of his jaw. "And I have to go down to the docks to meet with some merchants," I say, regretfully. "So... I'll see you at dinner."

"I'll hold you to it," he murmurs, helping me to my feet before climbing to his own. I'm shy all of a sudden, now that he's standing next to me, so much taller than me, and I blush hotly. He chuckles softly, stepping closer, and cups my cheek in his hand, tilting my face upward, and kisses me once more. The smile he gives me then positively slays me and I giggle, hiding my face in my hair and covering my mouth with my hand.

He smirks, shaking his head, turns to go, gives me another look, then turns away again, still shaking his head.

Oh gods, I can't believe that just happened.

I just made out with Alistair. I have to clap both hands over my mouth just to keep from squealing like a teenager. Gods, what's wrong with me? I'm a grown-ass woman. I giggle anyway. Turning around, I look at the trunk, then at all the spilled silver on the bed. I'll deal with that later. I grab the stack of bowls out of the trunk and stuff them in my bag as I pick it up off the table, then turn for the door. I've lost a lot of time this morning, and I still have to turn these bowls in for cash if I want to make it to the meeting with enough money to make it worth my while. Each of these is worth between twelve and fifteen silvers, so I've got, what, between thirty-six and forty-five silvers. Not bad. I'll be able to get enough wood to experiment with, decide what I'd like to use more of, what I can do without.

I'm smiling as I finally make it down to the shop, and Brizio is sitting there, agitated and watching the sky. He blinks at me in surprise as I come through the door, and I shrug apologetically. "Sorry, I got distracted by some magic that was hiding in my room. I had to have Anders take care of it. But I'm here now. I just need to stop off at the silver shop by the docks before we head over." He nods, getting to his feet and picking up his own bag. Everyone carries one, it seems like.

We're half-way down to the docks by the time he finally turns to me and says, gruffly, "What is that you're humming, girl? You've been over the same tune since we left."

I pause, thinking about it, not really having noticed, and then the lyrics float through my head, and I have to blush. I just shake my head, "Oh, just an old ballad," I prevaricate, and he gives me a knowing and sceptical look, but lets it pass. "It's looking like a beautiful day," I say, making myself giggle, and Brizio just nods.

"Yes. Fair winds today. Fair trade. It is a good day for new alliances," he says, and then huffs at me impatiently as I giggle all the way to the waterfront.


	25. In the Air

The merchant from Seheron hasn't got any mahogany, more's the pity. I may never see that beautiful wood again. They do, however, have a very pretty stripe that is equally pliable and will finish up nicely, and a very dark wood that reminds me of teak. Their "red wood" turns out to be much closer to Chinese red than mahogany, but it's beautiful, startling in its hardness. I come away from the port flat broke again, but happy.

My silver stretched further than I expected, or maybe the merchant was just generous with his samples, but I managed to get one piece of everything, and enough of the red to make a few shelves. I noticed a bookcase in Alistair's office that's in the sorriest shape, sagging under the weight of tons of missives and books. It's not going to last the summer. I got some fairly nice slabs of teak for Anders' desk; I can see that it could use a good hutch on top of it, with cabinets and drawers. He doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to fix it. And Lels, she seriously needs a tackle-box type thing, only for her sewing stuff. The bit of stripe I've got will be an excellent container for all those pins that always end up getting dull, stuck into the sides of the box she has currently, which is really soft as pine, and totally useless for the purpose she's put it to.

Brizio is amused by my high spirits, and I immediately fall to in the shop, sketching out my ideas, before creeping out and trying to be sneaky. Luck is with me at the clinic, and I manage to get Anders' desk measured before he shows up again, nose buried in a disordered sheaf of papers. He stops short, blinking, then arches an eyebrow.

"How are you doing?" he asks, a little wary.

I pause, taking stock, then shrug. "I'm not sure what it was, but... it went away as soon as you left the room. It... didn't feel so good." I shiver, the memory haunting me, and some of the light seems to go out of the day. "I don't want to hurt like that anymore," I say, my voice deserting me. "But... I feel like I _have to_ read it. Whatever is written on that paper is important." Vital, maybe.

"Is that you, or the magic talking? I wonder," he muses, eyeing me, and I swallow. "You do realise you just said you _have to_ read it, right? Not that you _want_ to?" he asks, and I bow my head, putting a hand to my forehead, because he's right.

His hand rests on my shoulder, the curious warmth that always radiates from it a comfort to me. "Hey. The magic was strong - very strong - and it's connected to whatever it is that ties your life to his. It was bound to have an effect on you, but don't let it spin you around, okay? You knew exactly what you were about yesterday, and you still do today. Do you know you've smiled more in the last couple of months than you have in all the time I've known you? And I don't mean just any smile - I mean truly, genuinely, without covering it up or feeling embarrassed about it. You haven't apologised for laughing since last fall."

"I apologised for laughing?" I ask, blinking, and he nods gravely.

"Are you going to tell me you miss that? Because if you do, I'm not above smacking you with a fish and setting Ser Pounce-a-Lot on you." he warns and I burst into laughter, making him smile. Pounce, hearing his name, pokes his head up over Anders' shoulder, looking around. He meows at me and I reach up, but he ducks back down into Anders' hood.

"Okay, okay," I say, holding up my hands. "Point taken. Such a fearsome beast he is," I croon, watching his tail smack Anders' cheek, and he smiles affectionately, glancing over his shoulder at the little cat-haunch pressed to the back of his neck. I take a deep breath, straightening my shoulders and strengthening my resolve. "Okay. Moving right along, then, I've been thinking: I want you to have all that silver." He starts back, surprised, and I smile. "Put it toward women who need birth control, or help in birthing, or sick kids, or hungry people, or orphans made by Crows. I don't care, just make sure it goes to helping the people who need it most, even if all that means is getting you more supplies so you can keep doing what you do."

He nods. "That much will go a long way. Thank you, Lily, that's incredibly generous."

I let out a relieved breath, and shake my head. "Really, you're doing me a favour. I'm just glad it'll go to something worthwhile, because otherwise it'd just sit in there in the trunk. Right, so, I left it right where it was, all over the bed. I didn't want to touch it... just in case. You can go get it any time you like; I didn't lock the door."

"Got it," he says. "It'll be out of your room before dinner."

"Thank you, seriously. It's a relief." He smiles, and I touch his shoulder as I pass, heading out the door.

Unfortunately, there's a guard on Alistair's office. Damn. "Hi Marco," I say, coming to a stop in front of him. "Meeting, right?"

"Yes," he says, eyeing me from head to toe, and I raise my brow.

"What?"

"You're covered in red dust," he says, and I look down.

"Hmm... So I am. Must be from earlier; I was down at the docks. Oh well, it'll just get worse before the day is out. Anyway, is he supposed to be going anywhere, at some point soon? Like, somewhere out of his office...ish?" I ask, totally not-so-stealthy, and turn red as his smirk gets wider and wider. I put my hand to my forehead, hiding my shameless grin by dipping my head. "Some of his furniture is falling apart," I say, mastering my face, mostly.

"Mmhm," he says, not losing the smile, and I sigh, not very convincing in my exasperation. "Try again after lunch," he finally allows.

"Ah-hah! Thank you!"

All the way until after lunch? I'll never get it cut out and sealed by dinner if I don't get a move on now. Eh. I've been in there enough times to know basically how big the thing is. I can eyeball it.

'After lunch' turns into 'almost dinner', by the time I finally come up for air, and I have to hustle if I want to have time to change out of my nasty clothes before I eat. I always hate being grubby at mealtime. The red wood is beautiful, and very hard, but it sloughs powder on any cut edge, which is pretty much all of them. I had a hell of a time trying to find a way to seal it, but it likes lacquer. The particles suspend in the clear varnish, making it almost appear to shimmer. I hope he doesn't ask me to paint over it.

Back in my room, I strip just inside the door and shake out my hair before heading over to my washbasin. The powder has seeped through my clothes. "Gross..." I say, looking down at the red streaks on my skin, and sigh. I don't have time to go look for a bath. Shit, I probably inhaled a bunch of it. It would've gone right through the cloth I usually wear. Better talk to Anders about it after dinner, just in case. The water is so red, it almost looks like blood by the time I finish. I don't have enough water to do my hair, so it's just going to have to wait. I run a stiff brush through it, and sit on the bed.

That's when I notice the silver is gone, and smile. Good as his word.

I have to resist the urge to put on a dress. That's just crazy-talk. It's only dinner, same as every night. So, jeans and a tunic, same as every night. Right. Besides, I promised Raffaello I'd play him cribbage. As I'm crossing the courtyard, I see Ponka trot by with a sleeping Schmooples in his mouth, held by the scruff like a pup. They end up playing so long that the poor little nug just passes out in the hallway somewhere, usually. Then Ponka will take him to Lels' room, where he sleeps peacefully through the night, only waking once for food and cuddles right around the time Leliana wants to sleep. It works out perfectly, and Lels loves him for it.

Ah, damn, I forgot my pitcher. Oh well, I'll have to go back for it later, I think, as I push open the door to the Wardens' hall. Oh, the food, I can smell it, my mouth watering and stomach grumbling both at the same time. Ah, double-damn, I didn't eat lunch. I'll just keep that one to myself, won't I? Yes I will. Especially since there's really no excuse, when I had food in my bag with me at the shop.

Raffaello is already waiting for me as I sit; I let him deal, so he has two hands to work with, and go over all the rules with him again as we play and eat. The hall has mostly emptied out, but several of the Wardens are sitting about still playing games and idly munching by the time Alistair finally makes it in. He looks extremely worn out, but gives me a brilliant smile anyway that makes my heart skip a beat. Oh gods.

I wipe my palms on my jeans, putting my attention back to the board, because we're almost done, and Raffaello counts out his hand, only missing nobs this time. Alistair sits down next to me as I say, "It's a hard rule to remember, because it's so random, but if the suit of your jack matches the up card, you get a point." Tonight, I'm keenly aware of the heat and length of his thigh pressed along mine, and try to ignore it. My deal. And I totally did _not_ just slide my foot over so my entire leg lines up against his. Nope. Not me.

He presses back while I'm choosing my hand, his foot suddenly sliding under mine as he angles his knee away from me so that if I want to keep my leg where it is, it's pretty much laying atop his now, forcing me to spread my thighs a little more than is actually seemly, and I blush hotly. Fortunately, Raffaello is still staring at his cards, but it hasn't escaped Alistair's notice as I hear him make a small sound under his breath that is most likely him trying not to chuckle at me. I drop an eight and a four into my crib, keeping my five, ten, jack, king, and hope for the best. The up card is another four, absolutely no help, but pair for the crib, so- I lose my train of thought as I feel the heat of Alistair's hand envelop my knee, making my breath stutter. Raffaello looks up at me with brow furrowed, and I cough to cover it up.

"Uh. Oh, right, uh, your count," I say, flustered. He lays down a six, having learned not to start on fives or tens. "Thirty, my point," I say, after a quick exchange. Purposely sliding my leg against Alistair's, his hand slips a little way up the inside of my thigh before I lower my heel, making his hand come to rest on the top of it, just above my knee. Two can play at this game. I swallow thickly as his fingers flex, deliberately squeezing my thigh, then gently raking his fingertips along it before nonchalantly bringing it back above the table to continue eating, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, and a run is eight," Raffaello says, laying down his hand.

I take a breath as Alistair ups the ante by suddenly sliding his foot in front of mine, hooking my ankle behind his and effectively trapping my leg against the bench unless I want to call attention to us by trying to extricate myself. "Right, uh, not bad." I lay down my hand, counting, "Fifteen-two, four, six."

"Nobs," Raffaello says as I peg, and I look down. Sure as shit. The smug smirk, I can see it out of the corner of my eye. I never miss nobs. I sigh softly.

"Yep, you got me," I say, watching him take his point as I move the four into my crib and flip it over. "Pair for-" I start, and there is Alistair's hand again, backs of his fingers ever so slowly sliding up the top of my thigh, skimming along the edge where our legs touch. "Uh, pair for two..." What have I got here? Four, four, six, five, eight. Why can't I add? "Double run of three is six- I mean eight-" Shit! "Uh, and that pegs me out," I say, relieved, and then notice I missed four points with the fours, five, and six making two fifteens. I can feel a muscle jumping on the inside of my thigh as his fingers pass near it on the way toward my hip. Raffaello sighs wistfully, gathering up the cards, and I give him a smile. "Hey, hey, not bad, really. You were only one hand behind me."

"Again?" he asks hopefully, and I shake my head as Alistair's hand parks itself at the top of my thigh and begins to turn, his fingers ever-so-slowly wrapping over my hip. Raffaello nods happily, and I smile at him as he gathers up the board and cards. "Thank you for the game."

As soon as Raffaello's attention is elsewhere, I turn my head quickly to look at Alistair, shooting him a mock-glare, and he pretends to be all offended innocence, even though his hand is still _right there_. "Yeeeeeesss?" he asks, when I don't say anything, and I find that I kind of can't, my mouth opening, but no sound coming out. He chuckles, smug, and I growl, darting forward and playfully setting my teeth into his bicep. He flinches back with a startled laugh, trying to fend me off. "Hey, hey, gently! I bruise easily!" He doesn't let go of my leg though, so I can't really get away, and neither can he.

I grab onto his forearm with both hands. "Rawr!" I growl, pouncing on it and pretending to gnaw at it.

"Ah!" he exclaims, flailing and laughing, and I let him go.

"Hah," I say, sitting back and folding my arms over my chest, confident I've made my point, but the gleam in his eye is positively predatory when he looks back at me next, and he grins wickedly. I feel my eyes widen as he hunches his shoulders, raising his hands and looking at me out of the tops of his eyes, and I suddenly realise he means to tickle me. I jerk back, but my leg is still trapped between his and the bench, and as I accidentally expose my belly, he attacks it with both hands. I squeal, totally undignified and curling in like a bug, but his hands are gone in the next instant. Laughing helplessly, my hair shrouds my face; I look up at him sharply once I can breathe, and he quickly stuffs his mouth with a chunk of bread. I scowl, because it's against the rules to tickle someone with their mouth full. He totally did that on purpose, of course, his cheeky grin proclaiming it.

I used to hate tickling. Seriously, _hate it_, to the point of 'I'll smack you and it won't be funny'. My mom's family used it as a weapon of humiliation when I was a child, holding me down until I lost control of my bladder and then laughing at me for it. Tickling always meant cruelty, to me. That is... until Alistair found that out at the beginning of last summer.

"Do you think I would hurt you?" he asked, voice soft, and I had to shake my head, no. "Do you think I'd try to humiliate you like that?" No, I said, never. "Then don't be afraid to laugh, Lily. It won't be too much, I promise you, and if anyone ever tries to do that to you again, they'll have to answer to me." True to his word, he's never done more than just 'get' me before backing off, and so I find myself amenable to it for the first time in my life, because it's part of a game now.

The game is between me, Lels, Anders, and Alistair. Everyone is used to seeing any of us, at any given time, chasing each other around. The idea is, you have to catch them, but you only get a point if you manage to 'bite' them. The game is on if anyone tickles someone. You can totally drag in unsuspecting participants if they a) know about the game, b) aren't working, and c) you're currently being chased. It's totally fair to throw someone under the cart; you just run by and tickle them, and then whoever is chasing you has the option to bite that person instead, in which case then the bitten person is 'it'. Point totals reset at the end of every month, and whoever has the lowest total has to do some kind of small favour for the person with the highest. Secret-Santa type stuff. Last month, Anders gave me a little packet of honey candy, and the month before, Alistair gave Leliana about two yards of bright cobalt silk ribbon.

I've been sparring in my free time all year; I've got a few moves now, so while he's decided to take a time-out, I do something he's not expecting: I slide forward off the bench, going to my knees under the table, bending backward limbo-style. Swinging my body sideways gives my leg enough backward play to get it unhooked from his. I tuck and roll across the floor, using my momentum to end up opposite him as I pop back up to my feet. I grin at him, saucy, but I still have the sense to be backing up. "Uhoh, now there's a table in the way. How did that happen?" I tease, putting on a mock-innocent face and pointing at the corner of my mouth theatrically.

He's going to have to go around the outside to get me, but I've got a free line to the door. "Gonna catch me, soldier?" I ask archly, a familiar taunt, and all the Wardens left in the hall laugh or make the usual 'ooh, you're in trouble now' noises. But this time something flares hot and determined in Alistair's eyes, making me pause, and then he's suddenly in motion, vaulting the damn table amidst a clatter of crockery. He's never done that before. "Oh shit-" With a shriek, I turn and flee, chased both by laughter and a very single-minded Warden Commander.

It is while I'm legging it straight through the courtyard at a dead sprint that I remember: this direction, there aren't many places for me to go before his long legs eat up the lead I've got just from being swift. I scramble around a corner, running on instinct, and head straight for my room, which isn't helpful at all, I realise, but only too late. There's another outlet in this hallway, I could circle around and maybe dash upstairs - I always lose him on the stairs - but I can feel him right up on my back. I zig to the left, but one long arm snakes out to grab me about the waist, and we spin, careening crazily, me laughing hysterically the whole time. He puts his arm out, keeping me from smacking into the wall too hard by holding me tightly until my back hits the plaster.

Always, this is the part where he bites me and backs up, grinning smugly, and maybe I hunt him down and gnaw on his head before he tickles me again and chases me off. But this time... This time he's looking down at me, laughing, face flushed, his hands to either side of my shoulders, and he doesn't step away, he moves closer. The intensity in his eyes... I can see that he's burning, that _I_ do this to him; suddenly my breath is coming fast for an entirely different reason, and I watch him as he instantly sees the change in me.

Slowly reaching down, he deliberately splays one hand across my lower back, and I put my hands up, not sure what I mean to do with them until they land on his stomach. I feel it flex under my hands and lose a stuttering breath as he pulls me toward him, still so slow, giving me time to stop him, to get away, as he bends his head toward me.

I don't want to stop him.

Going up on my toes, I turn my face toward him as his lips descend, and he presses closer, fitting his mouth against mine like it was always meant to be there. I whimper, hands sliding up his chest so I can wind my arms around his neck as he leans back, pulling me off my feet. The kiss deepens with every moment as he stumbles backward into a door and opens it without looking. He turns us through, and it bangs shut behind us when his back hits it with a thud; holding me tightly, he slides down, taking me with him, until I'm sitting astride his hips, his hands wandering up my back beginning to pull my tunic up, mine running through his hair. Oh gods, it's so soft, why did I never notice-

"Er..." Behind us, a man clears his throat. "I _really_ hate to interrupt, Commander, but I can't exactly leave..."

I gasp and squeal, shocked and jolting back as Alistair's arms tighten around me protectively, but it's only Anders. Why do I feel like we've just been caught by my parents? My blush spreads all the way down to my breasts. I duck my head, falling forward against Alistair's chest and tucking my face into his neck, giggling. He straightens my tunic with one hand as his other arm slides under my hips and he unfolds beneath me - oh gods, so tall - setting me on my feet.

"Sorry, Lily," Alistair says, looking chagrined and rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I should've checked first..."

I look around, realise we're in his office, and cover my mouth with my hand, shaking my head. Anders has the most shit-eating grin on his face, despite how he tries to hide it. "Well! I'll just be going then..."

Alistair and I shift away from the door like shame-faced teenagers, backing up to give it room to open. As it closes again, I burst into embarrassed giggles, covering my face with both hands, and Alistair laughs quietly. In the next moment, I feel his hands cover mine, and he laces our fingers together, tugging them away from my face. "Don't hide your smile," he implores softly. "I love it when you smile." I bite my lip, looking shyly at him as he pulls me closer, then reaches up, running his fingers through my hair. I turn my head, eyes sinking closed as I lean into his hand, and he gently strokes the side of my neck, my breath catching on a shiver. "Maker's breath, you're beautiful," he tells me, voice low and husky, making me blush again. "Tell me I'm not dreaming."

"If you are, then we both are," I murmur, and I hear his sharp intake of breath a moment before he claims my mouth again, pulling a sigh of desire from me. Oh, I do. I want him. I want him to touch me. I want to feel his hands sliding up my back _without_ the tunic in the way. I want to feel his hip flex against the inside of my thigh. I want to see him close his eyes and bite his lip, because of what I do. Oh gods.

_Aphrodite, please. Give my heart ease. Let me have this peace, this man, this me._

Alistair kisses me like I'm his first taste of salvation, moaning softly, and the sound of desire in his voice awakens a pulse at the very core of me. I whimper, arching toward him as his hand strays toward my ass, and he grabs it, pulling my hips forward sharply to press tightly against his thigh. I gasp, my small cry breaking the kiss as my head rocks back at the sudden burst of pleasure, and I can feel him, oh gods, I can feel the hard length of him across my belly. I realise with more than a little trepidation that _everything_ about him is massive.

He makes a small, strangled sound, and I realise he's shaking and breathing very hard as my head clears somewhat. "I didn't- I didn't hurt you, did I?" he whispers nervously, and I giggle. He huffs under his breath and growls, but it's his playful, pretend-irritated growl.

This particular sound is usually the warning that he's about to bite, tickle, or chase me. I wriggle and squeak out of instinct, bucking as I try to escape, but pressed as we are, this causes my hips to rock against him instead. He cries out softly, and so do I, instantly changing the mood between us again as he tenses, stilling. "Does that feel like pain to you?" I gasp into the moment of silence, trembling.

His voice is extremely dark in my ear, breath hot against my neck, and I shudder. "No."

I make some tiny little wailing sound, completely inarticulate, and he pauses. "What was _that_?" he asks, humour in his voice, and I giggle again, blushing. "Was that even human?"

"I think not," I say. "Must be some kind of beast."

"Oh, right, the Flailing Giggle Monster. I think I may have faced that one before. Very elusive creature," he says dryly, making me laugh, causing me to shift, and then both of us gasp again.

I close my eyes, swallowing thickly. "Hnnh... Alistair..." I whisper, strained. "If you don't let go of me, pretty soon I'm-" His breath washes across my neck as he presses his lips to the curve where it meets my shoulder.

"You're...?" he prompts, murmuring against my skin, and I try to remember what I was thinking about, but can only come up with a soft moan. "What will you do if I don't let go, Lily? Will you bite me again?"

"M-Maybe," I say, still whispering, and then I remember as I feel him flex against my stomach. "Oh gods," I whimper, my voice tiny. His lips travel upward toward my ear, barely grazing my flesh, breath tickling along my hairline, and I can _feel_ my body responding to him, my panties wet in an instant. "Alistair... Alistair, wait," I gasp, almost against my will, and he pauses, pulling back with a frown, but lets me go. I press a shaking hand to my chest, trying to catch my breath, trying to keep my pounding heart inside it. "Oh gods," I whimper again.

"What's wrong?" he asks quietly, but I just shake my head, laughing a little bit hysterically.

"N-nothing, no, but-" I swallow. "Is this going where I think it is?" I ask. "I mean," I gasp, blushing, "It's not just me?"

He comes a little closer, close as breathing again, and his scent overwhelms me, intoxicating. "Is that what you want?" he asks softly. "You know I've never done that," he adds, the backs of his hands brushing against mine, knuckles sliding up my wrists.

I blink up at him. "What? Still? Never?" My voice is tiny and quavering, and I swallow. He _is_ still a virgin. _Eros, preserve me._

He shakes his head, so serious, his eyes so dark. "I never met a woman who could drive me to it," he murmurs, fingers sliding up my arms, "Except once, perhaps... and now you." My breath catches. He's talking about Mahariel... and _me_. _Two_ women, in his mind. "Lily," he says, and I blink, realizing I've been staring at his mouth.

"Uh- Yes?"

"You never answered my question."

Question? He asked me a question? I have to think for a moment, blinking, staring up at him wide-eyed, and then I remember. He asked me if it's what I want. "No one's ever asked me that before. It's always just been... assumed... once a certain point is reached..." I say, finding that my hands are shaking. I want to touch him, but I don't dare, not now, not if we aren't going to-

"Maybe someone should have," he says. "That doesn't seem right." I see his throat flex and he raises his hand in my peripheral, tucking my hair aside again, the motion naturally turning into his fingers sweeping across my jaw. "I want it to be right," he whispers hoarsely.

I catch his hand and press a kiss to the centre of his palm, eyes closed tightly. _Aphrodite give me strength._ His sword hand, the calluses are thicker on this one, I notice distractedly. I stroke my fingers along the inside of his arm, from wrist to elbow, pushing the sleeve of his tunic out of the way as I go, feeling a small sense of accomplishment when he gasps softly. Oh gods, the hardness in the flex of his muscles under my hands, the twitch I feel in him as he moves closer. I let my mouth follow the path of my fingers, stepping into the circle of his arms as I kiss my way up to his elbow. Pressing my lips to it, I suck at it lightly, with a swirl of tongue, knowing that the inside of any joint is a sensitive spot. "Ah!" His voice is soft but I can hear the pent up force behind it.

What I am not prepared for is that his skin tastes salty-sweet, and that he smells so much like home it pulls a quiet but clearly wanton whimper from my throat before I even know it's there, startling both of us. "I don't know how to answer that with anything but actions," I whisper.

"Words are harder," he says. Fingers under my chin slowly tilt it up, hazel eyes pinning me to the spot.

"No lie," I admit, and swallow. Am I going to have to show him everything? Wait, is it right to go from first kiss to sex immediately? Well, it's not like I'm a virgin. Ah, but he is. It's been over a year that we've been chasing each other around and living together; it's not like we're strangers. Does it even make a difference, at this age? Should I be considering age? I'm over-thinking this. Fuck! I've hesitated too long, and he begins to turn me loose. "No!" I exclaim, then swallow and continue on more quietly. "No... don't let go." Yet still, the words stack up in my throat. This is going to be like having a tiger by the tail, once he knows what he's doing. I want to reach up, to touch his face, but he catches my hand, his fingers sliding between mine as he presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist. "I want you," I whisper, the words just falling from my mouth as I watch him kiss me, striking me right through my terrified heart with arrows of my own daring.

His brow furrows, almost as though he's in pain, eyes squeezed tightly closed. "Tell me what you want me to do," he murmurs, lips brushing against my skin, and my breath catches.

This, at least, is something I have an answer to, my eyes slipping closed as I sway closer. "Touch," I whisper brokenly, "Taste... _Feel_."

His breath comes faster and his free arm wraps tightly around me; I cry out softly as he suddenly crushes me to his chest. Turning his face quickly, he captures my mouth, and I meet him, fingers flexing around his, only to be startled frozen by a knock at the door, right behind us. The thundercloud on his face makes me pity whoever is on the other side, as his narrow-eyed gaze slides toward it.

Releasing me reluctantly, he gets between me and the view of whoever it is as he pulls it open abruptly, and then there is a pause. "What do you need?" he prompts, his voice flat.

"Ah... well, I have the report from Marco on the guard changes-"

"Anything unusual?" he interrupts, and there's another pause.

"Er... No, ser?" comes the cautious reply.

"Good. Stand here, guard this door. No one knocks, no one comes in. Got it?" he asks, voice brooking no argument.

"Yes, ser!"

Alistair shuts the door and flips the latch, then braces his hands against the frame, shoulders hunched. I reach out, touching his lower back, made a little bolder by the fact that he's turned away from me. My hands slide up a bit, then around his ribs, splaying across his stomach as I hug him from behind. One of his hands covers mine, twining our fingers, and I feel him tense. Am I pushing him?

He turns abruptly, not letting go of my hand, and oh... the look in his eye tells me that if I turn back now, I'll break something. He puts his back to the bedroom and pulls me on after him, one step at a time, letting me feel the deliberate weight of his gaze, then opens the door for me. I don't hesitate. The light cuts off as he shuts it behind him, leaving me standing in the stripe of moonlight coming in through the window as he leans against the door. "You're nervous," he observes, and I swallow, nodding. "Why?"

"I've never done this before, either," I say, my mouth dry. My breath, I can't seem to catch it as he comes closer.

"But... No, but you have," he argues, confused, and I can feel the heat radiating off his skin again, clouding my thoughts as I breathe in his scent.

"Not for someone else's first time... Not with you," I murmur. I close my eyes so I won't be afraid to continue, and step into his arms.

"That makes a difference?" he asks, wrapping me in his strength, making me forget my nerves as I put my arms around his waist, resting my head against his chest.

"All the difference in the world." This, or any other. He's an entirely different animal.

"You're shaking," he says, a whisper against the top of my head as his hands stroke slowly up my back, leaving broad stripes of heat in their wake.

His stomach muscles begin to jump as I dip my hands beneath the hem of his tunic and splay them across the bare skin of his back. "So are you." Oh gods. "_Eros guide me_..."

"Eros?" comes the dark whisper above me, and I look up. I am rapidly losing my ability to think clearly, because I didn't mean to say that out loud.

I shake my head, going up on my toes, and press my lips to his. His hands ball in the fabric of my shirt as he immediately responds, suddenly dominating the kiss, and I whimper helplessly, sagging against him. Gods, his skin is so hot, almost like he's got a fever. My hands slide around his ribs and further up his chest, following the lines of his torso, ridges and ripples and scars... Flemeth's fang, that's this matching set of round patches, front and back, so close to his heart.

His tunic rucks up around my elbows, exposing his stomach as he becomes impatient with how much fabric there is and just pulls upward, suddenly tangling us in our own sleeves. He clears his first and immediately becomes distracted by my belly, dropping to his knees in front of me and pressing his face against it, hands circling my waist and smoothing over my hips as I toss the shirts off to the side. Oh... oh, that's new. Always, they go for my breasts or straight between my legs first, but he wants to kiss my stomach. This touches my heart in an unexpected way and I watch him with wide eyes, running my fingers through his hair and stroking his neck. He's so serious, so intent, that it begins to pull soft little moans from me.

As my jeans are pushed lower, his thumbs skim just below the belt line, dipping within to stroke my hip bones. In the next moment, he tips his head and then I feel his tongue, oh gods, so hot, searing across my skin, dragging that line just above the fabric. I gasp, my fingers flexing in his hair and raking lightly across his scalp.

He goes for the buttons, but I force myself to sway back, taking a step away, and he looks up at me, confused. Sitting down on his bed, keeping his gaze, I put my ankle up on my knee and begin unlacing my boot. If he's going to try and get my pants off, we'd better start here, while I still have the presence of mind to do so. After a moment, he sits next to me and kicks off his own. Mine take a little longer because of the laces, and he gets impatient with that, too, growling softly and kissing my shoulder. I tilt my head to the side, stretching my neck as my eyes slide closed, trying to focus long enough to get free of my boots. My fingers fumble at the laces as his lips travel closer and closer to my ear, but I finally manage to kick it off to land somewhere hopefully near the other.

His fingertips skim along my collarbone as I take my socks off with my toes, and my arm slips around his neck as I rock backward, losing my balance. I writhe, letting out a little breathy cry as his lips fasten to the sensitive spot just behind my ear, pressing closer. I suddenly find myself skin to skin, only the thin fabric of my bra separating us, and he is like laying up against a heater, making me cry out as my nipples suddenly pucker. On instinct, I hook my knee over his hip, swaying toward him, suddenly wanting to be much, _much_ closer.

He hums, a small, dark sound of desire as my hips bump against his, pressing his length between us, and I cry out again, reminded with wicked clarity just exactly what it is that I'm in for. His big hand rests at the small of my back, keeping me there as he continues to kiss my neck, along the edge of my jaw, descending with velvet softness along the line of my throat, and I bare it for him, oh, I do, because the heat of his breath and the press of his lips makes me shiver, makes me moan, and there is no one in this world or any other whom I trust more than the man above me. And that's exactly how it's supposed to be.

I'm not even sure where my hands have been, just a wave of sensation as they ride the swell and flex of his muscles, mapping the uncharted territory of his shoulders, his back, his chest, sliding up his neck and into his hair. Oh gods, he's huge... His hand flexes at my lower back, pressing me against him again, and I arch with a gasp, suddenly thrusting my breasts into his face. He moans softly, hungrily, and presses an open-mouthed kiss between them, his free hand sliding out of my hair to cup the side of one, pressing it to his cheek. His thumb strokes over my nipple, just once, and I jerk as a jolt rockets to the very centre of me, before his fingers slide slowly along the bottom edge of my bra. He's only tentative until he encounters the buckle, and then it's simply open, giving him access to an uninterrupted swathe of skin from neck to waist. He takes advantage of it immediately, fingertips trailing down my spine so lightly that it raises my small hairs and makes me keen, trembling and tense.

My touch just sort of melts its way down his chest, and I find myself with a double handful of sinuously rolling muscle. He looks bulky and awkward in all his plate, but then I found out how fast he has to be _outside_ of the armour, to be able to move that fast _inside_ it. And how strong he has to be, to move in it that easily, and still lift that heavy-assed sword and shield and swing them around like they're toys.

Tiger? Tiger.

_"Burning bright,"_ I whisper by accident as he nuzzles aside the fabric over my breasts. His questioning hum is only met with a gasp, as his breath across my naked skin raises goose-flesh. I am momentarily frozen, but then I start mewling like a kitten when he takes it in his mouth, his free hand wandering back to casually pull my bra aside and fling it.

I can't reach the laces on his pants and I growl softly with frustration. I get my fingertips under the waistband, stroking the sensitive line that curves over his hip, but he shifts away, thwarting that, making me whine in protest. Slowly, he works his way down my stomach to the top of my jeans, then pulls the buttons apart, one at a time, kisses and swirl of tongue following every revealed inch as he slowly peels them down. He nuzzles his face into the hollow of my hip, hands stroking over the curve of my waist and down over my hips, mapping the shape of my belly as he pushes my pants away with one long arm. I hear them hit the floor someplace, but he's already pulled loose the tie on my panties, every low, hungry growl coming from him shaking me to the bone.

His hair grows in every direction... it's no wonder it sticks up. Oh gods, and it's so soft... so thick... What is it about my hips that captivates him so? I buck as his breath washes across my inner thigh; the little scrap of cloth is flung aside to join the rest of the detritus and he looks up at me sharply. I feel like the mouse who just caught the cat's attention.

In that moment of breath, I'm able to move. Curling forward and seizing his face between my hands, I kiss him desperately, wriggling to get my legs under me. I crawl toward him, making him straighten, until we're both on our knees, pressed tightly, so I can finally get my hands on his pants, but you'd think I'd never met string before. I can feel the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, breaking the kiss as I fumble with it, and I lean back, breathless, looking up at him in confusion.

"Templar secret, love," he murmurs, voice so dark I have to press my thighs together. He takes my hands, pressing the backs of them to his stomach, then slides them down into his pants, just at the waistband, smile wide and smug. Inside, I feel a regular bow knot and giggle as I tug the trailing ends. The knot pops loose and his pants instantly fall several inches, barely resting on his hips, really only held aloft with the assistance of one very solid cock.

I can see the curve of it, very clearly, and reach out tentatively to tug the cloth aside, watch it fall down his thigh, before my eyes are dragged back up again. This is also the moment when I realise I'm naked, too - not that I didn't know that before, but now I've paused, I'm thinking again, and that's bad. I don't want to think. I want to feel.

I'll never get all that in my mouth.

That's my last coherent thought before I dart forward, wrapping my arms around his waist and kissing his chest, suddenly rediscovering how fiery his skin is as I press against him tightly. It's my turn to kiss belly, only when I get to his button, I slide my hand up the inside of his thigh and run my palm across the softness of his sac, making him suck in a quick breath. Twisting my head, I curl my tongue around his crown and wrap my lips around it, sucking it into my mouth. His voice, oh, the sweet surprise of pleasure never known, comes panting and hiccuping from above me. I take my time and go slow, trying not to do too much at once as he gradually curls around me. Shaking hands mindlessly stroke my hair as he makes these soft, rhythmic little cries, almost like they're being dragged from him. I stop when he begins to develop a little hitch to his breath, and as I shift, I can feel that I'm soaked halfway down my thighs.

I straighten, but he stays crouched there, shivering, and I run my hand up his arm. "Okay?" I ask, suddenly worried.

There is a moment of silence, and I can see his throat working, then he says, "Maker's breath... Lily..." my name falling from his lips like it's sacred. "Show me what to do," he whispers, hoarsely. "Please," he begs, hands coming to rest at my hips again, and I lift his face in both of mine. Oh, oh his eyes, oh, he slays me, and I bite my lip.

Laying back, I pull him down next to me and take his right hand in mine, sliding it between my thighs. Trembling with nerves, I press my face into his shoulder, my fingers sliding under and around his as he learns with impressive alacrity, and then struggle to hold it together so that he can explore on his own. Clinging tightly, keening and whimpering, my cries grow ever more desperate. He slips a thick, experimental finger inside me, where I have shown him, the motion against my g-spot quickly reaching the point where it sends waves of fire down to my knees and all the way up to my breasts. "Oh gods," I gasp after a moment, grabbing his wrist. "Stop, stop." He freezes, and I slowly push his hand away, my breath coming in ragged heaves as the fire tamps down somewhat from inferno.

"Did I-"

I kiss him passionately, no time, no breath, no words for recriminations or explanations, winding my arms around his neck and hooking my knee over his hip. I arch my back, bucking against him, sliding all that slickness along his length, and he moans into my mouth, suddenly pressing toward me and flattening me to my back again. I guide him above me, my thighs skimming up the outside of his, my hands down his chest as I curl my legs around his.

I finally break the kiss, breathless and desperate enough that I can barely form coherent thought, but I know he's going to hurt me if I don't warn him. "S-S-S- Slow," I whisper, shaking as I arch toward him, angling myself so he rests at my entrance. "S- Stop if-if you get- too close-" I stutter, and then that's all the patience I have.

I slowly roll my hips downward against his and he bows his head, taking a deep, shuddering breath. I have to stop almost immediately as the sheer girth of him threatens to pull me over the edge right _now_. I moan raggedly, because there's still so much of him left, and I can't make him try to weather the strength of what's waiting for me while he's still trying to get used to the idea of being sheathed. Haltingly, battling for every inch, we slowly sway together. He is a solid weight within me, throbbing strongly and radiating intense heat. Both of us are trembling and sweating, voices tired from the strain of trying to keep ourselves muzzled, by the time we manage it, and I pause, because I can feel my internal flex sucking at him. I want to move, so badly, but I have to step back from the edge again.

I reach up, tracing the curve of his lower lip with one finger, the little soul-patch under it tickling my skin, and smile as my breath returns somewhat.

"What?" he asks, voice low and full of desire, making me shiver, which makes us both gasp.

"N-now sex," I reply, trying to pry my eyes open again and look up at him.

"We haven't been doing that?" he asks, and I grin.

"Foreplay. Just opening moves," I say, shifting slightly to press more tightly against him. "Don't push too hard and-" I swallow, "Don't stop." Oh, oh his eyes, oh the tiger, he's going to eat me alive.

_Thank you, Eros_...

"And... it... it goes like this..." I whisper. I take a deep breath and hold on tightly to his shoulders to give myself leverage, then begin to rock gently and slowly against him. Oh gods, I'm so full. He cries out sharply, arms tightening around me, and my back bows further, changing the angle of my hips just that tiny bit that makes all the difference as his base lines up to strike my apex at the top of each thrust. It doesn't take him but a moment to get the idea, absolutely destroying my self-control when he picks up the rhythm on his own. It's all I can do to hold on tightly now, and just try not to howl like an alley cat.

Oh, and I want to. I want to scream for him.

He is like holding my own personal sun, and the way he moves under my hands, the flex of his stomach against mine steals my breath. His soft cries of bliss fill my ears, slowly beginning to rise in volume. I finally drag in some oxygen, and it smells strongly of cedar and ocean, oh, and his skin tastes so good as I latch my mouth onto his shoulder, slick with sweat, trying to muffle my wailing as his voice begins to take on a growl. He touches secret places deep within me that no one has ever touched before, dragging the transcendent sensation from my lips in the form of his name, moaned wantonly, _"Alistair..."_ and I sound like I'm begging.

He makes a small, strangled noise, and the rhythm of his voice develops a hitch, and then a questioning note of impending desperation. Oh gods, I can hear it in his voice.

I moan once, low and guttural, as I feel my climax coming up on me like a freight train, and then it just runs me over, shattering me from within. I cannot help but let out a long, ragged, sobbing wail. I spasm and ripple around him so tightly that I drag him along too. I feel the strong flex of him within me, and I'm startled by the scalding heat of his seed as he moans brokenly, clutching me to his chest while I try to rock us through it.

I slow, surrendering to the inevitable as the torpor of after-glow steals over me, going boneless with a heavy sigh. Alistair cradles me in his shaking arms, curling around me protectively, and rests his head on my shoulder, trying to catch his breath. I can't keep my eyes open, my head lolling to the side as I absently stroke his shoulders, his neck, and run my fingers through his hair. "Lily," he breathes, and I stir.

"Hnnn..." I mutter, incoherent.

"I'm losing you," he says, agonized, and it takes me a moment to apprehend his meaning.

"Mmh... no... 'mright here. S'jus' wa'happens. Shhh... tha's what tomorrow's for... 'f I can walk..." I mumble, trying to be reassuring, and wrap my arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.

"Tomorrow," he breathes, clearly not having thought about the idea that this could and will happen again. Gravity finally forces us to separate; he groans, disappointed, and I sigh, feeling the same way. Sitting up, he takes me with him, and I collapse against his chest, nuzzling my face into the hollow of his shoulder. "Now what happens?" he asks, and I pull my arms in, curling up, because the night seems so cold, next to him.

I groan querulously, not wanting to have to move, resenting the necessity, then sigh. "Now I have to get up," I admit, reluctantly, but I don't budge, not yet. "I have to wash."

He pauses. "Is that... bad?"

I smile, laughing quietly. "No, just a fact. Messy thing, sex." He chuckles under his breath, pressing another kiss to my shoulder, and I sigh softly. "Tell me there's still water in your pitcher."

"There is," he murmurs, and I shift, carefully getting my legs under me. My knees seem to be under the impression that they have the night off, however, and he catches me with one hand at my waist. He takes a candle into the office to light it as I lift the pitcher, and I have to pause to watch the singular sight of him walking about naked and unashamed. I'm just turning around, thinking maybe I need to lay down for a minute, when he returns; as he lights the lamp, I see a ton of pink welts around his shoulders, and a darker, rather clear rake that goes from his lower back to curve over his left hip. My right hand.

"Oh my gods," I blurt, and he looks at me over his shoulder.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks, slightly self-conscious. I cover my mouth with my hands and giggle.

"I'm sorry- I totally scratched up your back," I admit, and he turns around once in a circle, trying to see. I giggle, going closer. "Here," I murmur, putting my hand shyly to his hip - why am I shy now, after all that? - and he lifts his arm, twisting. That's when I notice the scratches on his chest, too, and cover my mouth with both hands. "Oh my gods," I say again, then cover my face instead, totally mortified.

I have _never_ scratched someone up like that. A few, sure, but this...? They should all be gone in a couple of hours, sure, but... not the one over his hip. That'll last a few days.

"Hmmm... That looks like it should have hurt," he muses, and I blush, looking at him through spread fingers. He arches an eyebrow at me. "You didn't know you were doing that?" I shake my head, hands dropping and eyes sliding away, though I can't repress the smile. "That's a good sign, right? I'll take that as a good sign." I bite my lip, giggling again and he shakes his head, looking around for his pants. This is when I have a chance to look around, too, and I gasp at the mess. There are clothes literally everywhere. In fact, Alistair's tunic almost went out the window, and I laugh when I see it hanging over the sill, and mine puddled on the floor just beneath it.

He turns, looking the same direction I am, and chuckles. "Hmm... a little bit impatient, maybe?" he teases, and I seem to be all full of the giggling now, as I retrieve my own tunic and slip it over my head, then find my panties and tie them back on. By now, he's got himself back into his pants, and strolls over to the door to go dismiss the guard.

"Hey! Hey, your tunic!" I say, holding it out, and he grins rakishly.

"What, and miss the opportunity to show off my heroic and manly battle wounds from my encounter with the dreaded Giggle Monster? I barely escaped with my life!" he teases, striking a series of silly 'hero' poses, and I toss him the shirt. Silly, maybe, but still dead sexy. Maybe I'm a little biased right now. I bite my lip and giggle at him as he snatches it out of the air. "No? Awww. Oh, all _right_," he pouts, still teasing as he rolls his eyes, and I smile, relieved. "Spoilsport." My legs are too tired to hold me up anymore, so I sit on the edge of his bed, then keel over to lay down, burying my face in his pillow. I hear the door open again, his feet padding across the room, the outer door, and a murmured conversation.

I can't believe that just happened.

Oh my gods, I just slept with Alistair.

I shy from the pain of what that means for my past, what I've finally left behind for good, and try to hang on to the giddy happiness.

_Zev_, my soul whispers, and I try to slam the door on it.

_He left and hasn't been back in a year, hasn't even tried to contact me. It's clearly over,_, I argue with it firmly. I've had this conversation with myself many times.

_But the letter_, it whispers, a new piece of ammunition.

_Fuck the letter. He couldn't be sure I'd ever get it. What if I'd just handed that bag of silver off without even opening it? Technically, that's exactly what I did._ So there.

_Zev_, it whispers again.

"Alistair," I say, relieved as he comes back into the room to find me crushed and crumpled on his bed, smiling up at him. He's blushing and rubbing the back of his neck. "What?"

"Ah... Apparently... we... er..." I put my hand over my face.

"Were very loud?" I finish for him resignedly, and he laughs self-consciously.

"Yeahhh... sorry about that. One of the kitchen maids was so distressed by it, she ran off in tears," he says, chagrined, and I groan.

"Oh no, Serena."

"What, how did you know?" he asks, surprised, as he snuffs the lamp. He shrugs out of his shirt and drops his breeches, then crawls over the top of me to stretch out beside me. He wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me backward into the safety of his embrace, and I sigh, all the tension from my errant thoughts flowing out of me.

"She's been infatuated with you for as long as I've been here. I wouldn't be surprised if she tries to scratch my eyes out or spits in my soup the next time she sees me."

"Whaaaat? You're having me on," he scoffs, but I shake my head.

"Nope. 'Struth," I mumble, starting to drift a bit. Man, I'm tired. "I think-" I start, cut off by a jaw-cracking yawn. "I think I'm going to fall asleep," I say. "Better get myself put together-" I'm cut off by a complete loss of air as his arm tightens around my stomach possessively.

"Don't even think about it," he murmurs in my ear, then pauses. "Please... stay," he says, more quietly, and I hear so much vulnerability in this request that I sigh softly, settling back against him.

"Okay," I say, simply. "Don't want pants anyway." I yawn again, my eyes slipping closed. "Gods, why is your skin so hot?" I ask, nestling my face in his arm. I thought maybe it was just his state, but it hasn't gone away. I slip my hand into his as he pulls the blanket up.

"Warden," he says, sounding as sleepy as I am. "The Taint burns." I still, and he feels it, giving me another squeeze. "Shh... Don't worry about it, honestly. I don't really feel it. I don't like the fact that it will cut short my life, but the only thing that really affects me is the idea that I might never be a father," he murmurs into my hair, curling around me. "Especially now that there's you," he adds, and I can feel myself blushing again. I pull our hands up so I can kiss his, and he smiles against my neck.

"Don't let go," I whisper, the blackness rising.

"Never," he promises, and then I pass out.


	26. Petrichor

The day dawns like a big fat brick of sunlight to the face as the first spear shines straight through Alistair's open window and into my eye. I groan, putting a hand over it and rolling over, grumpy. He's so warm, I had to have the blanket off my front just to not bake to death, and now my back is frigid and my front is on fire. I feel like an ice cube and suddenly shiver, teeth chattering. His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer. The blanket falls over my back as I press myself against him, trying to warm up, and his brow furrows.

"You're cold," he mumbles, tucking my head under his chin. This is when it sort of hits me that I just woke up in his bed. The sudden throb between my thighs as I shift against him reminds me of last night, and I gasp softly, looking up at him. He leans back, cracking his eyes open, then smiles broadly. "Hi!"

"Uhm... Hi!" I burst into giggles, covering my mouth with one hand, blushing, and press my cheek to his chest, cuddling closer. He chuckles, his hand running lazy circles from my shoulder, over my hip, and back up again, under my shirt. It's about the fourth revolution that it begins to make me feel a little more than just comforted, and I shift toward him. A heaviness awakens deep within my belly, and I pause, putting my hand over it. It aches, almost like period cramps, only not very strong, and not quite in the right place. I moan softly, half in pain, half in desire.

"Hmmm?"

"I can still feel you," I whisper.

"I like the sound of that," he says, and I can hear the grin in his voice.

We can't stay in bed all day, so after a time, I sigh regretfully and roll over again. "Got to get moving," I say, resigned. At first, I can't stand up, all jelly-legged, but I eventually manage to wobble my way through getting into my clothes. Once I'm dressed, I lean against his washstand, supporting myself on both arms, stretching my legs out and trying to convince my inner thighs to do their job. He laughs at me, teasing me gently as I pace and pull the knots out of my hair, before we head out to grab some breakfast.

The hall is mostly full when we get there, the night and morning shifts mingling, settling bets, starting new games and scarfing down mass quantities of food. "Commander!" someone calls, and we halt just inside the door as Alistair stops and looks up. It is as all heads turn to look at us that I realise maybe I should have thought this through a little better. Everyone starts clapping and cheering, making me blush hotly; most of it is directed at Alistair, who turns bright red and rubs the back of his head with one hand, grinning broadly the whole while. I lean into him, hiding my face in his shirt, and he puts his arm around me tightly. The rich tenor of his laugh rumbles under my ear, and I love the sound of it.

We eventually make our way around the room and sit down with some breakfast, a lot of the Wardens filtering out soon after, still grinning at us or laughing.

"Oh gods," I groan softly, leaning against his shoulder, having turned several shades of red over the last twenty minutes or so. "We are so not sneaky."

He laughs. "Nope! Stealthy as an angry bronto with smelly socks on."

"You didn't sound like a bronto," I say, keeping my voice down so it doesn't carry, purposely teasing him about his socks, because damn. Seriously. There's no excuse for it. They're gonna walk off by themselves one night.

"Who said I was talking about me?" he says, then laughs, dodging my ineffectual slap at his bicep.

"I am not smelly! You're horrible! I hate you so hard!" I exclaim, laughing. He bats my hand aside and grabs me by the hips, pulling me closer, suddenly making me gasp.

"No you don't," he scoffs, voice low and full of humour. Smiling and completely sure of himself, he kisses me soundly. My fork clatters to the plate as I tilt my head up, hands automatically rising to his shoulders, fingers travelling upward and through his hair. I don't even care about the whistling and laughter as those Wardens still present witness us kissing for the first time.

He's right.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The warm sun of late afternoon beams down on the garden around us as Leliana and I enjoy the shade on the side of a small pool. I lay sprawled on the blanket, arms over my head, watching scudding clouds float by, my feet kicking lazily in the water. Leliana hums softly, idly weaving a crown of grass and early wild flowers, and our decimated picnic basket stands forlornly nearby, a lone scrap of cloth hanging out from the mostly empty interior.

"I can't remember the last time I went out for a picnic," I muse, completely relaxed for the first time in a very long while.

"Hmm... it is important to take time to savour the little things, no?" she says, a smile in her voice. "Sometimes it is the best thing to simply sit and enjoy being a creature of the land. The Maker gave us a beautiful world to explore, full of light and possibility. It is important for us to notice these things, and be grateful for them."

I nod. "It's easy to call on the gods during times of stress and fear, but when times are good, people forget to be thankful."

"Mmhmm," Leliana agrees, flower stems twisting between her fingers. "I've been wanting to ask you, Lily... if you'll tell me... Who _are_ your gods? I see you have an altar that you set up in a very specific way, and you speak of them, but... Oh, I am just terribly curious, and I have been for a long time. I don't like to mention it, because a person's relationship with their god- or gods- is a very personal thing, but... I do love stories," she says, and I laugh.

"You're right. It _is_ a personal thing. But I'm happy to tell _you_, Lels. You can always ask me anything." I take a deep breath, trying to figure out where to start. "The gods I worship are called the Greek Pantheon. They're tied to the stars, and the turning of the seasons and the rhythms of the world. Every aspect of life has a god or a spirit attached, has its heroes and its villains, and story after story of the people who lived to tell tales of their encounters with the gods."

"They walked among you?" she asks, startled, and I shrug.

"Once, so they say. They certainly didn't in the time I was living in. I'm a keeper of a very old faith that not many follow anymore. Hmmm... let's see... where to begin..."

"Do you have one in particular that you are drawn to?" she asks, after a moment.

"Ahhh... You know, I do. Poseidon. Ruler of the sea and my Piscean - that is, fish-like - nature, and deliverer of my life's blood, hundreds and thousands of times. The wood by which I made my living, and the survival of a storm that-" I cough. "Anyway, there's a story of a man who really pissed off Poseidon, scoffing at him, before he was going to try and head home from a war in a foreign land... Right before he's going to get in a ship and try to sail home, no less. That was the longest trip home I've ever read." I sigh, then tell her the story of the Odyssey while she braids my hair and weaves the flower crown into it.

"Maker, this Odysseus fellow doesn't have much sense of self-preservation, does he?" she says at one point, and then, "Why is she just waiting for him like that? It's incredibly romantic, but it's not very sensible." The story becomes new again through her eyes, and I enjoy telling her, much as I hated reading it for freshman English.

"Soooo..." she says, after a while, and I turn away from watching the fish to look at her. "_You're_ the topic of servant gossip today," she says, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and I blush.

"I was wondering when you were going to get around to that," I say, then giggle. "I can't believe it happened, really. I'm just glad it didn't change his standing with his men."

"I don't think anyone has any doubts about _your_ opinion of him," she teases, making me blush again. "What I wonder though, is what changed? I thought sure you would both become insane during the winter, yet nothing happened. What was different about yesterday?"

I bite my lip and feel my face falling, even though I want desperately to hang on to my good mood. "I... I told you about the bag of silver, right... well... that very day, I flung it in the trunk of Mahariel's stuff and closed the lid. Never opened it again, until yesterday, when I was going to get those bowls. Well... there was some kind of magic attached to it. When I opened the trunk, I felt-" I swallow, putting my hand to my breast. "That terrible, hollow agony, the howling grief of a sh-shattered heart," I say, my voice breaking on the last word, and I have to stop, try to breathe, my reflection wavering in the uncertain mirror of the water's surface. I see Leliana's hand float up to rest on my shoulder and close my eyes, taking the comfort as she rubs my back gently.

"Oh gods, it hurt so bad. Ponka slammed the lid, and it stopped immediately. So... I went to Anders and he figured out that it was this paper in the bottom of the pouch that was the problem, so he took it. Meanwhile, this thing had hold of me, pulling all of that shredding torture straight out of the grave and shoving it in my face, making me bleed all over again. It was horrible, Lels, like no time had passed at all. And then Anders was gone, and so was the feeling, leaving me hollow. I just kind of... collapsed on my floor and stayed there, crying on Ponka, because it sucked all the life out of my day.

"But then... Alistair was there. He must have heard me crying or something, and come to see what was the matter. Anyway, he picked me up off the floor, no questions, just... put his arms around me and held me, and I let him, because I needed it, and then I realised it was because I needed _him_. That the source of my sense of safety and belonging is _him_. _He's_ given me all these things. And... And... I just... He smells like _home_, where I come from," I whisper. "Suddenly it seemed like a crime that he wasn't kissing me. And then he was... and it... it just... Oh gods, it felt right, Lels. It didn't hurt, it didn't burn me to say his name, and then I suddenly couldn't imagine a situation where I wanted him to stop." My breath catches and I turn to see her eyes full of total understanding, and she smiles.

"There are some who say they were present after dinner last night to see Alistair go straight over the top of a table to chase you," she says, a cheeky sparkle to her eye, and she giggles.

I am quick to defend myself, gasping as though offended. "That was _not_ my fault. He totally tickled me first."

"Oh? Hmmm... And _then_ what happened?" she asks, grinning and saucy, all ready for the juicy details, and I have to laugh. I feel like I'm in high school; she's Sofia all over again, demanding that I dish. So I do, some of it. I tell her about him catching me and stumbling through the door, Anders interruptus, how his hair grows in every direction, and how he seemed to love my belly and hips the most, and she giggles with me, blushing just as much as I am.

"I do not know if I dare to ask, but I've just been burning with curiosity. Lily, you were with Zevran, so- How- You never were so... clear-voiced," she says, and I cover my mouth with my hand.

"Uh... well..." I laugh nervously. "He's... A very tall guy..." I say lamely. She looks at me for a moment, and then her eyes get wide. "And uh... I've..." I clear my throat, gesturing vaguely and awkwardly, trying not to measure with my hands. "I've had plenty of... _attention_, but not... in... quite those... _dimensions_," I say, kind of at a loss for words, then blurt in a whisper, "My knees still weren't working this morning!" Her mouth falls open in a little 'o' of surprise, and we fall together, shoulder to shoulder, laughing.

_And as for Zevran, because he was very good about swallowing my cries, or putting his hand over my mouth. I loved those things._

My heart cracks dangerously, and I shy from it, even as the images take over, unbidden. I gasp, putting a hand to my forehead as it scythes through my mind. No, don't look, don't look-

_The slide of his leg between mine and the purr in my ear-_

Stop it, stop it!

_His hand down my side and the way his stomach rolls-_

He's gone!

_The smell of spice and musk._

Cedar and rain and ocean and wood and callused hands and wit and laughter-

_Cara mia..._

My Zevran.

I'm choking on it, and I press a hand to my heart, suddenly doubled over gagging, tears starting from my eyes. _Aphrodite, help me._

Leliana pats me on the back and I cough again, wiping my eyes on the back of my wrist. "Oh, that wasn't funny," I say, shivering. "I think the magic is still having some kind of effect on me. That hurt. I better get back, have Anders check me out."

The day is old by the time we make it back to the base, and Anders isn't in. Ah well. I fetch dinner from the hall and eat in the courtyard, where it's quieter. Leliana keeps me company for a time, and I tell her a story about Persephone and Hades. I hang around for a while after she goes, but still haven't seen Anders, so I just get up and wander toward my room. It's probably nothing. Just an echo. The magic was bound to have an effect on me, didn't he say? It's just residual.

I hear the rhythmic sound of armour crashing together in marching time, and stand aside as a regiment of Wardens go by in full plate. Battle plate, not dress plate. Alistair comes out of his office, and he's in armour too.

I look up at him, wide-eyed. "What's going on?" I ask, trying to pretend like I'm not freaked out by any of this. He crowds closer, putting his hands to the wall to either side of me, gauntlets clattering against the plaster as he leans down, and oh gods, he's frighteningly massive in his armour. My heart picks up speed and I feel my lips part.

The smile he gives me then is one I've only seen on his face since yesterday morning, and I know it's just for me. "Routine for opening anything underground outside of the city: have to take a full presence, just in case," he murmurs, and I breathe a sigh of relief. "I should be back in a few hours." I go up on my toes, fingers curling into the neck of his breastplate so I can kiss him lightly. He straightens as I let go, and then one articulated finger stretches out to touch a leaf that rests against my forehead. "I've never seen you look more beautiful," he says, eyes soft, startling me to open-mouthed surprise, and then he turns, jogging off after his men, before I can even form a coherent reply. Oh gods, the men are always so much hotter in their armour.

I watch them go, tongue-tied, then dash off to Leliana's room. She's just pulling out some skirts she's been working on for us when I darken her doorway. "Lels!" I exclaim, breathless, and she looks at me, eyebrow arched. "You have to help me. I need you to do my portrait."

She blinks at me. "Now?" she asks, and I nod quickly.

"Right now. Please. I'll buy you a pot of honey. Two pots. Two pots of honey and a chunk of chocolate," I keep upping the ante and she finally laughs. I point at her. "Sold, two pots of honey and a chunk of chocolate, right? It's all yours, if you'll just do it now. And we have to go back out to the courtyard."

"All right, all right, let's go," she capitulates, picking up her charcoal and paper. I hustle back to the place where I was just a moment ago, and stand there. "That's it? Just here?" she asks, and I nod.

"Definitely." I sigh softly, thinking about the moment I was looking up into his eyes, the feel of the metal under my fingers and the press of his lips to mine, the way he smiled at me and how my heart sped when I saw him again in full gear. I go over and over it again in my mind, waiting for Leliana to tell me she's done, and then when I see the results, I'm shocked. "Four pots. Four pots of honey, some chocolate, a piece of candy, and a package of tea." She laughs.

"I'm glad you like it!" she says, handing it to me, and I give her a tremulous smile.

"Alistair was here, the Wardens going out for something official, and he said I looked beautiful, so..." I look down at the paper, then back up at her. "I wanted to capture it for him, before the light changed. Thank you. So much." She chuckles and stands up, giving me a hug.

"You are so silly. I would have done the drawing anyway, you know," she chides, and I nod, grinning.

"I know. But this way was more fun."

She laughs at that, finding it truly funny, then gives me a peck on the cheek before heading back to her room, still chuckling, and I look down at the picture. It's really, really good. Not a photo, but a damned good likeness. I giggle softly, biting my lip. Pictures are so much more important here, so much less taken for granted. I need to build a frame for this.

I head back to my room instead, trying to think of how to protect it once I've got a frame for it, because the glass here is ripply and doesn't work very well for picture frames. I tuck it away in my wardrobe and set about cleaning up my room, because it's a shambles after everything that's happened over the past few days. I sing quietly to myself as I transfer my altar to its new home: a small table I liberated from a back room. I miss music, more than anything else from home. I miss being able to turn on the radio or put on a playlist and just work. It's finally set to rights, and I'm turning around, thinking about going to the shop to get a piece of something to carve, when I find Alistair filling my doorway, leaning there like he's been watching me for a while.

"Hi," he says, smiling, that one that's only mine, and I feel myself blushing already.

"Hi," I reply, suddenly shy for no good reason.

"Come play chess with me," he says as I cross the room and he straightens, coming a little further in to meet me. He takes my hands as soon as he can reach them, thumbs smoothing over the backs, fingertips stroking the insides of my wrists

"Gods, and you say you've never done this before," I whisper, lost in his eyes enough to be entirely artless, and I can see the humour at the corners of them.

"What?" he asks, laughing softly. "What do you mean?"

"Well, just the way you touch me... you're so sure of yourself," I say awkwardly, and Alistair laughs, his hands slowly rising along the length of my arms.

"I know what a woman's body looks like, Lily, and I've had a _lot_ of time to think about it."

I blink again. Wait, how much time? "How old are you?" I blurt, and he laughs again, cupping my upper arms.

"I promise I'm an adult?" he offers, and I blush. "Why?" he asks archly, a sparkle of mischief in his eye. "How old are _you_?" I put a finger to my lips. Actually, I haven't thought about it.

"What day is it?" I ask, looking up at him, and realise he's a lot closer than I thought. I swallow, shifting. Why am I nervous? Oh gods, he's going to touch me again - not that he isn't already touching me, but the length of his legs and-

"Er... twenty-second of Guardian," he says, wary, but still smiling. "Why?"

"Uh... it... it's my birthday today, actually," I say, surprised. "Sort of. Technically. Your year is eleven days longer than mine, but... fifty-three days past the first of the year, that's today, and I was here on this day last year. I'm... thirty-two."

He blinks. "You're younger than me?"

I blink. "You're older than me?"

We both laugh. "How old did you think I am?" he asks.

I bite my lip. "Uhhh..." Now I'm embarrassed. What if I guess too high, or way too low? I don't want to insult him. "...Twenty-nine?"

He stares at me for a moment, then laughs. "Seriously? Twenty-nine?"

I blush again, laughing with him. "Er... Yes? I don't know!"

"Clearly," he says, still chuckling, and I sock him lightly in the bicep. "Ow! Ah! You're so mean to me," he complains, pouting, even though he surely barely felt it.

"Well, then how old _are_ you?" I ask, exasperated, all full of warring impulses. I want to just be playful with him, like we always are, but I'm also keenly aware of his proximity, the way his body feels against mine, oh gods, the size of-

"You _really_ want to know?" he asks, "It matters that much, does it?" Some of the playfulness has dropped away, and I realise that he's got so close, I can feel his heat again. I bow my head, my eyes closing, and breathe deeply.

People don't talk about their age much. They don't like to discuss birthdays, unless they're political affairs or particularly significant. I don't know why that makes me feel kind of lonely sometimes, but it does. I have no idea how old the people around me are. Leliana won't tell me hers, and seemed slightly offended that I would ask, even if she forgave me easily for not knowing it seems to be gauche. And hey, there are even people from home who feel that way. Why does it make me uncomfortable? Do I need to know whether I am younger or older in order to determine how I interact with someone? Maybe that's not a good way to be. I pause, thinking all these things. "I... No. No, it really doesn't."

He laughs again, shaking his head at me. "_You_ are a very strange woman, Lily... but I love that about you." His hands slide down my back to settle on my hips as he bends down to whisper in my ear, "I'll be forty at the end of Bloomingtide," and my breath catches. Forty? Holy crap! He doesn't look anywhere _near_ that age! "You look shocked," he says, leaning back, amused, and I blush hotly.

"You don't look your age. Not by a long shot," I tell him honestly. "And... also, I thought with the whole Templar thing and not having taken your vows yet, you'd be younger."

He shakes his head, laughing again. "Noooo... You think they would just turn a twenty-year-old, hot-blooded young kid loose on the Tower? It's bad enough, some of the things they get up to, the abuses of power, but to add on that the raging desires of youth? Cruelty at best, and a recipe for failure. Templars don't take their vows until around thirty-five, for that reason. They have to be sure the celibacy takes, you see." I stare up at him. Good gods, no wonder there was never anyone else.

Why does it hit me so hard, that he'd tell me this? He will, when even my best friend won't. That I told him mine might be considered a bigger sign of trust and affection than I think. "Thank you," I murmur. The heat of his palms searing through my jeans drives all further thought from my head, and I close my eyes, breathing in his smell of home. It _is_ an intimacy, I realise, just judging by the way it's tugged on me so hard, for him to tell me his birthday. It's a small thing, but it matters, and so you guard it closely, share it carefully.

His fingers curl around my hipbones, pulling me closer, flush up against him, and I hum softly with desire. I sigh as he wanders the curves from the base of my ribs to the tops of my thighs, smoothing down over my hips again. "I love these hips," he murmurs, heartfelt, and I giggle as he gives them a squeeze.

"I noticed!" He growls, a low and hungry sound, and I lose my breath all at once. Gathering my tunic up to my waist, his mouth claims mine with authority. The heat of his palms sears me as his hands slide down into my jeans, fingers curling around the curve of my bottom. I moan into his mouth, wrapping my arms around his neck. Stumbling backward with me, he fetches up against the side of my bed and tips over backward to land across it with a heavy thump, and I end up sprawled atop him, wildflowers raining down everywhere.

So much for playing chess.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"Girl, you have got an uncommon eye," Brizio says as I put the finishing touches on Alistair's bookcase. Once I got the structure built, I realised that the edges of the pieces had strange variegation that didn't mesh very well, so I painted the whole outside with black lacquer, which made the red of the shelves pop out shockingly. When I got done with that, it looked much more like a Chinese piece, and then I couldn't resist the giant canvases that were the sides. I took some gold paint and blocked in frames that were like long rectangles with the corners punched out and rounded inward, and used just a few, neutral tones to paint cranes and bamboo on both sides. Two different pictures, of course, because I'm not so good that I can make a blind copy like that.

Also, I didn't think about the fact that I could have used a mirror until I was half-way done with the second picture.

Brizio, inclined to feel that I was obsessing at first, has now decided that I had this in mind the whole time. It _has_ taken me weeks to complete, it's true, but part of that was waiting for paint and lacquer to dry, and part was interruptions by things that needed doing right away. Anyway, this is done, and should be ready to transport up to Alistair's office by tonight. "You know what? I _really_ like this red wood. Clearly, it has to be used sparingly; it's very fancy for everyday stuff, but it finishes up beautifully."

"Will you be wanting more of it?" he asks, slowly turning a table leg on the lathe, and I consider.

"Uhhhh... I don't know..." I say slowly. "Probably would be best to have some on hand, yes, but... I don't see there being a ton of call for it. Not with what we're usually about."

"If you build more furniture like that," he says, "It will be raining sovereigns from the nobles."

I look at it again, considering. I think maybe my eye is jaded to it, because it looks cool but normal to me. I could've got something like this mail-order at home, no problem. But here...? Hmmmm... "It's definitely a thought," I say, musing and tapping my lip with my finger. "Let's get enough to make a small table, and see what happens. We can shop it around to some of the noble families and see what they make of it. If they like it, we can order a few more pieces... but it's going to have to be limited production, or they'll get saturated with it. We could show people some sketches of what's possible," I say, warming to the idea. "That's a really good plan. And then I'll only make like, eight large pieces total, aside from the little table, maybe commit to a dozen small items, like dressing table boxes or something, and make them bid over it. It'll really get vicious once I turn out the first couple of commissions." I laugh. "Brizio, you're brilliant."

He snorts. "Of course I am. I am surprised you have only now noticed." He sounds gruff, but the corner of his mouth is twitching, and I laugh again. I think I can see why apprentices have been scared off by him before. He doesn't take any crap, shoots from the hip, has a sarcastic streak a mile wide, and doesn't have patience for fools. If he's told you once, that should be sufficient. Twice is all right if it's a complicated matter and you get lost in the middle somewhere. Anything else, and you're a waste of space, and his shop isn't big enough for that.

He's a saltier version of Papa, and that's the man who taught me the trade. No wonder we get along.

Now I've got most of the morning and all of the afternoon, so I start on the pattern for Leliana's tackle box. "I think I'm going to play with that stripe next, and see what comes. I've been thinking it might be good for veneers, but I want to see what it can do as a solid piece."

By the end of the afternoon, I've got the pieces blocked out on the wood, ready to cut for the morning.

I can't wait to see what she thinks of it.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Alistair is completely blown away by the bookcase, standing there thunderstruck and staring at it as I stand nervously by. "You _made_ this... Wow..." he breathes running his fingers down the edge of the wood, and I nod, even though it wasn't a question.

"For you," I whisper, and he looks down at me. His eyes, oh, so dark.

"For me?" he repeats, voice soft with wonder, even though we're standing in his office. "It's a work of art, Lily. Thank you."

It's not long after that I get pinned to the wall and ravished, and I have to say, as far as thank-you's go, it's my favourite so far.

I had intended for it to replace the sagging one, but he decides to use it for his regular books instead, and swaps out the rickety one for the former bookshelf. The red shelf now holds pride of place in the centre of a wall by itself, showing off the sides, and everyone who enters his office remarks on it. I'm going to have to update the rest of his furniture so it doesn't look shabby by comparison. Oi. That'll be a big job. However, I believe it's important for the Warden Commander's office to be both elegant and imposing. It needs to command as much respect as he does. Besides, the desk that he's got in there is constantly trying to eat his knees, it's so low.

It doesn't take me long to realise he wasn't joking: now that I've told him yes, it's like he has to make up for lost time; he always wants to be in contact with me somehow, when we have the chance to be together. He seriously loves it when I sit in his lap. I would say I don't know why, but I do, and it's not because of the usual reason: he just can't get over the idea that he's got me sitting on him, that he can take a double handful of my hips any time he wants. A perfect night for him entails some good food nearby, a bit of wine and cheese, me on his lap (possibly sleeping on his shoulder), and either a chess game or philosophical debate with Anders. And then me in his bed. All night. And only his bed, of course, because mine is too big - _Too big_, he says! It's a queen! - but it's because I'm not smashed up against him all night. I 'escape', he says, and then he gets all cold and that's just no good for anyone. So clearly it's got to be his bed.

I have to say, it seems to work out better for me when I do stay. On those nights, if I have a nightmare, I see him when I open my eyes, know where I am, and feel safe enough to just fall right back to sleep. No more waking up screaming and fighting. Sometimes I'm not even conscious at all, just responding to the sound of his voice in my ear. Half the time, I don't even remember, even if I do wake.

It takes about a week for me to get Leliana her sewing box; I put padding on the top and fill it with sand, covering the whole thing securely with several layers of tightly-woven fabric, so she can stick pins in it, an innovation she's absolutely thrilled with, and make a mesh envelope that presses to the inside of the lid, for holding patterns and miscellaneous things that don't fit in the rest of the box's compartments. All the little details of drawers and trays that lift out make her positively _squeal_ with delight, scaring poor Schmoopie half to death as he darts under the bed with a matching squeak of his own. It takes her half an hour to coax him out from there, and then he won't kiss her for four days. Always, she can stick out her face and make little kissy noises, and Schmooples will peck her nose with his own. Very adorable. Well, not after this. She is positively forlorn until he either forgets or forgives her.

It's hard not to laugh at her, but I miss Wanderer, and Pounce is a pocket cat. He only likes Anders. I've seen that cat crawl out of his hood and into the collar of his coat, go down his sleeve, and pop into his satchel, little striped tail hanging out, and Anders doesn't even bat an eye, just keeps on talking like everything's right with the world. Still, even without a cat, Ponka is the best dog I could ever hope for, and I am so, _so_ glad I named him after my favourite dog when I was a child. I can't think of him as truly a pet, but he likes me to, sometimes.

Spring turns into summer, and I make not only a locking, roll-top secretary desk, but also an apothecary's hutch. Together, those take me almost two months to complete properly, much to Brizio's alternating amusement and consternation. It feels like forever. But when I'm done, the results are undeniable, and the look on Anders' face is absolutely the best reward I could ever ask for. I even reinforced the slats with some thin metal rods, courtesy of Donal, so if someone really determined were trying to get in there by force, they'd make a hell of a racket.

After those finally leave the shop, there's this giant space in the corner that I had cleared out to hold them during assembly and finishing.

"Well, girl, you made a right jumble of the shop," Brizio grumps, and I look around. It's true. There are so many tools and bits everywhere. "Time to clean house."

I haven't actually paused to take stock of what we've got since I started, I just commissioned new pieces from Donal as they became necessary and kept going. We need to clean up, and quick, before I start something else. While we're at it, I make some racks to hold all the new tools that have, up to now, just been sort of stacked wherever. As soon as we start that, I realise that it would be really, really nice if we had better organization in general, so I begin doing an actual full-scale inventory, making notes as to what's missing in terms of things I've commissioned and what still needs to be made, as well as putting everything in order. And then we build a new cabinet to house all the tools more efficiently, since there's so many of them now. That takes us another two and a half weeks, but the shop's never looked better.

We're baking in the heat of mid-Solace, laying around during the afternoon siesta and fanning ourselves, talking about how much the Wardens hate their armour in the summer, when it occurs to me. "Alistair?" I'm not sure I want to know the answer to this, but I have to ask. He's never mentioned it, and sometimes I think it might be on purpose. He looks up, and I pause, but go ahead and ask anyway. "What... what happened to Enzo?"

He takes a deep breath, sitting back and studying me carefully, then tilts his head. "You sure you want to know?" I nod, and he lets his breath out in a whoosh. "The truth is, I actually don't know. I gave him several choices: I could hand him back over to Zev, I could give him to the Crows for punishment, he could stay in the dungeon, or I could pack him in a crate and ship him off to Weisshaupt in chains, let him explain to the First Warden why his allegiance to the Crows was more important than his duty to the Wardens." He shrugs. "He chose the Anderfels."

Unlike the Crows, or Zevran, Alistair gave him choices. Mercy.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"Why are you doing that?" Alistair asks, and I pause, pawn in hand, looking up at him.

"Uh... because I have to move a piece, and pawns go first?"

"Not true," he counters. "You can get a knight out, if you want, for instance. So... you don't have a plan for your pawn," he says, not a question, and I shrug. "Put it back." I set it down, biting my lip. "Is that really how you play? You just move pieces around?" he asks, surprised and confused.

I shrug again, awkwardly. "Sort of... I just... move these guys out of the way so I can get my mages and the queen out, and then try to take down pieces so I can get across the board."

He sits back in his chair, one arm bent to prop his chin on his thumb, forefinger pointing up over his cheekbone as he regards me seriously. "Just getting across the board isn't really the point," he says. "You only have to do that if you lose your queen, or another piece you desperately need, and if you've done that, unless it was planned very carefully, you've made a mistake somewhere. So, what's your plan?"

"I'm supposed to have a plan?" I blink.

"Maker, no wonder you never get any better. Look," he says, pointing. "This is your army. It's not just a collection of objects with rules attached. You have to decide how you intend for them to advance, which figures will be sent after which of your opponent's, and why, and who will guard them, while they carry out their mission. Soldiers can be expendable, sure, but sometimes the sacrifice of a key figure can distract long enough to make other things much more possible." His hands shift the pieces around the board, demonstrating his words, and I watch as he plays out a very quick succession of moves, culminating in the sacrifice of a mage, two pawns, a rook, and the queen herself, before the other mage suddenly has a clear line on the king, putting him in checkmate against a knight.

It's the most intimidating thing I've ever seen anyone do, and he's so casual about it.

I sigh. "I can't think that far ahead. The board holds infinite possibilities for me, at any given point. I have no idea which way you might move, what your plans or motives are. I know it's possible to plot out a sequence of moves from any given point in the game that will win, but it changes with every move, and I just can't keep all that in my head at once."

"You're still thinking of them as objects on squares. They move individually, yes, but they're part of a whole. They have to have just one commander, and one goal. Any way you move has to be part of that plan, has to get you further toward that goal, or it's wasted effort. So, if you pick up a piece, you have to know why. You have to have orders for them."

"I have no idea how to plan that far ahead," I tell him helplessly. "At any moment, any of my guys could be wiped out. I can't rely on them like that."

"Hmmm... that explains a lot," he mutters, putting the pieces back on their starting squares. "Did you approach the Blight the same way?" he asks, and I have to think about that. He doesn't ask me questions like this very often, because he wants to make a clear line between me and Mahariel, but he also knows that it was my mind directing her actions.

"Uh... what do you mean, exactly? Like, us and our companions? Or the armies?"

"Yes," he says, sitting back, watching me, and I bite my lip again. He gets that from me, this answering of multiple questions with a single yes or no.

"Uh... Hmmm... Sort of, I guess. There were times when I didn't take certain people into certain situations, because I knew they'd be counter-productive or whatever. Like I tended to leave Morrigan and Sten behind for that reason, a lot of times. Morrigan wasn't particularly interested in mercy or charity, and Sten couldn't understand how the things we were doing related... to... Oh." He grins, and I throw my hands up, frustrated. "Man, I told you I'm bad at this game," I grouse, sighing.

"You're not _bad_ at it. You're just not _thinking_ about it. Running on instinct works in a lot of situations, but in a tightly controlled space like this, there isn't much margin for error."

I sigh again. "I know... I'm just really not very good at strategy. The way things went down during the Blight was as much her influence as mine, when it came to what situations we got involved in."

This is news to him, and he blinks, cocking his head. I've never quite put it in terms like this before, but it's the only way I can explain how my options were limited without talking about game parameters. "What...? What do you mean?"

"Well... I was the one who made all the decisions, but she was the one who presented me with all our options. So... there were times when I didn't have the option to make the choice or say the thing I would have otherwise done, because of the way she required me to interact with the world."

This has got his attention, and I shift uncomfortably, glancing away. "Hmmm..." he says, and I can hear the speculation in his voice. "Dare I ask? What would you have done differently?"

"Uhhh... Well..." I chew my lip, trying to think of one that's fairly neutral subject matter. "Er... Well, like... Okay, here's one: there was no way to save Danyla. I could just feel it in my bones, that something wasn't right, but that it could be _set_ right, if she'd only be patient, if she'd only have faith. It was a curse, not like the Taint, and I wanted to counsel her, offer her herbs to let her sleep for a time. We could have cared for her, and then she would have been free, because it turned out I was right. But... Mahariel never set it on the table. I don't know, maybe she believed Zathrian. I thought he seemed to be too tightly controlled, and didn't trust him. I didn't want to make any major changes anywhere, didn't want any bloodshed or anything until I could find out what was going on with the werewolf thing, because the lore from my land doesn't match up with what I was seeing there."

His eyebrows go up. "No? What did you know?"

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well... where I come from, there's argument on whether it's a curse or a disease, but it's agreed that you have to survive an attack by a werewolf to be burdened with the change. Then, on the night of the full moon, the unfortunate person turns into a werewolf - like Swiftrunner, for instance - except for one major difference: they really are mindless beasts. The person always wakes up in the morning someplace random, naked, and maybe they've got evidence on them of some horrible doings in the night. But the one thing they don't do is _talk_. At least, that's what my lore said. I never learned anything to prove me wrong."

"So then if you truly believed she could be saved, why did you kill her?" he asks, and he's only curious, not judging me.

"Mahariel didn't give me the option to save her. You watched me ask all those questions. I couldn't say many of the things I was thinking, because I was confined to what Mahariel was willing to say or do. Usually, I was able to affect the changes I felt were best, say the things I wanted to say to people. But there were other times, like that, where..." I look down at my hands. "Anyway... Uh... So she was better at strategy than I am. Beyond that, we mainly did what we did because I was listening to _you_."

"Me? Why? You were supposed to be the one leading!" he says, and I shrug.

"Well, I did what I could, but I always thought you were smarter than me on tactics." I sigh, feeling tired all of a sudden, and look out the window. The waxing half-moon of August (no joke, August is August, here...) is on its way down toward the city roofs. "It's late, love," I say, yawning, and stand up. "We have a bad habit of..." I pause, the most curious coldness spreading out from my heart, and press a hand to my breast. "Alistair?" My voice is thin and quavery, and suddenly I can't draw breath, my scalp prickling. The yawning chasm of blackness that was trying to swallow me whole on That Night suddenly opens up beneath my feet as spots dance in front of my eyes, blinding me. Oh gods, Zevran. My knees buckle-


	27. Elysium Fields

Prelude: [a video of nothing but the sight and sound of ocean, wind, and seagulls; can be found here: youtu (dot) be (slash) OX5QXc7FcP8]

_He's got her. She's so pale, pale as death, a trickle of blood coming out of her tear duct, blue eyes wide and staring. He lays her down, and I want to look, but I know what I'm going to see._

Logic dictates that there's nothing we can do. Her life is tied to his. She's gone. I can't heal them both at the same time, and we'll never find him in time. We've got moments, at best.

"Bring her back!" Alistair snaps, the desperation of wild grief held narrowly in check by his belief that he can still control this.

I know, because I feel the same way.

Maker, I'm going to make myself sick again.

I kneel at her side. "One more time, Lily, come back." Pressing my hand to her heart, I force magic into it, force it to beat. It won't work for long, but perhaps- If I can get hold of the cord that holds her soul- Maker, this is not something we're meant to be doing- "Lyrium," I gasp, and he dashes off to get some. There's a hole in the Fade next to her- and if I can only focus on it- if I can just follow that slippery tether that's somehow- looped around her-

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

_Where did you go, baby?_

I'm standing in the woods. My woods. I turn around and around, looking at the familiar ferns and pine trees, cedars and firs, madronas and nettles, huckleberries and moss. I look up, and what scrap of sky I can see above the canopy is indeterminate west coast grey: the colour the sky is anytime it's daytime between October and June. If it's darker, it's going to rain. If it's lighter, it might not. Right now, it's lighter.

Looking around, I see a fallen tree that looks familiar, and head toward it, sure enough coming upon my uncle's house. Ponka runs up on me, barking happily and bouncing up and down. One blue eye, one green. My dog. I haven't seen this playful husky since I was a child. He died here.

I pause, thinking about that, but then I look up and see Dad. I swallow thickly, and suddenly I'm sixteen again, being told he's gone. "Daddy?" My voice cracks with tears, and I sound like a little girl. I've missed him so much.

He looks so, so sad. "Lily, baby, don't come down here," he says, shaking his head. "I don't want to see you."

I stand there, horrified, wounded to the soul by this. "But- But Daddy, I need you- Everything hurts-" It hurts so much. So- Right in my chest. It hurts. The world shimmers like water down glass, and I reel, falling backward, and down and down and down...

_Curiouser and curiouser..._

_You're Lily, but you're also not Lily at all._

I'm standing in a forest. It's not my forest. This one is full of oak, elm, ash, and beech. This looks like the Brecilian.

"Nolan?" He's standing right in front of me, no time in-between, and I stare at him. "What's going on?"

"Things are getting complicated," he says, taking my hand, and I realise that I can feel him in a much more tactile way than ever before. It's like actually being truly in person. Like I'm awake right now.

"Why am I not waking up?" I ask, beginning to feel alarmed. "I know I'm dreaming, so why am I still here?"

"It's going to be okay-"

"Wait a minute, what the fuck, Nolan," I interrupt, choking, and he tightens his grip on my hand.

"Hang on tight. This is the space beyond heartbeats." He tugs me closer when I just stare at him, horrified, and kisses my forehead softly.

_Oh, girl, when you do a thing, you don't do it by halves, do you?_

Oh, I feel it, the pain that came before, my chest, oh-

I'm standing on the beach. Grandma's beach. Nolan's gone again. I look up at the house, the same house it always was. I can't go up there. It's not like when I came here before; if I go in there, I'll stay. I can't. I have to find a way out. Turning, I run down the beach toward town. I want to go home. I want to go home.

_What life would you have said you wanted?_

_In my house by the sea. A mate, a life, love, home._

My chest-

Between one step and the next, I'm home. I'm on my own beach, daytime, running up to my back door, and I skid to a halt. The most beautiful, sweet-faced child stands on the back stoop, no more than two years old, pale blond wisps of curls and pale blue eyes, ears with tiny points, looking up at me, so innocent.

Tiny points.

I look around wildly. I'm still dreaming. Why am I still dreaming? I don't want to look at this too closely, because I'm beginning to remember, and I don't want to. "Nolan!" I sob, panicking.

"I'm here," he says, his arms coming around my waist, as I shudder. "Things that could have been. Hold on tight." I grab his wrists and close my eyes, leaning backward against him.

My chest-

"I have to find a way out, Nolan," I say. "I'm tired." I'm blinded by darkness. It feels like I'm laying flat on my back in nothingness.

"_Cara?_"

"Zev..."

It suddenly seems as though I've been sitting at the bottom of a well, and someone is shining a floodlight on me. A bright, transparent figure reaches toward me and puts its hand straight through me, reaching past me. I can't move, I can't breathe; it doesn't hurt, no, not yet, but it feels like my hair is about to catch fire. I can hear Zev screaming. Oh gods, he's screaming, what are they doing to him that would make him scream-

_What have I done- What have I done- What have I done- What have I done- _

Is that my voice or his? Maybe both of us.

He's laughing. A gallows laugh, a triumphant laugh, a threatening deadly laugh.

It's hot! Everything burns!

White light flares in my vision, blinding me. The ocean is roaring in my ears. Something hot weighs heavily on my stomach. Someone's got a hand on my chest. There's something wet on my face. I can't move. I settle for taking a deep breath, and hear a sudden noise, something falling, somewhere. The thing on my stomach shakes, and the light fades. It's warm. I'm so tired.

No, wait, I need to be awake.

I whimper, trying to shift. My muscles feel like jelly, all pins and needles, like my whole body fell asl- Oh gods.

The next sound I make is closer to a scream. The weight on my stomach is suddenly lifted, and the hand disappears from my chest. Everything jangles all at once, like being stabbed everywhere with straight pins and broken glass, and I writhe. "No!" I shriek, because it hurts like hell and nothing is stopping it.

Anders' voice comes from nearby, slurred almost beyond comprehension. "S- all- 'got-" and then a heavy thud. I sob brokenly, curling on my side. In the next moment, big, hot hands smooth over my arm, down my back, leaving a temporary wake of relief in the warmth of their passage.

He stops when I gasp, and I start babbling. "No! Don't stop, don't stop; it stopped hurting and then you stopped- You were fixing it!" until he puts his hands back on me again, and I sigh with relief. "Rub!" I beg, and thank the gods that his hands are so big, because he can get a lot more at once. Slowly, slowly it recedes, made bearable by Alistair's touch, and at last I lay quiet and exhausted.

Leliana has come during the time I was insensible with the pain, and has Anders propped up against the wall, washing the sweat off his face with a cloth. He looks grey. Oh gods. "Anders?" I ask, suddenly panicked.

Leliana looks up, eyes serious. "Lyrium poisoning, I should think. He is still breathing, but beyond that, I cannot tell."

There is something wiggling in his coat, and then a little furry head pokes out, looking up at him. Pounce meows, wriggling around some more, meows again, but gets no response. He climbs up Anders' coat, on the outside for once, and perches on his shoulder; rubbing his head along Anders' cheek, he purrs loud enough for me to hear him all the way over on the bed. Pretty soon, he decides that face-rubbing isn't enough, and starts licking Anders' hair. Nothing happens until Pounce gets fed up with Anders' lack of response, and bites his ear lobe.

Anders jerks, brow furrowing, and then he frowns deeply. Eyes suddenly popping open, he looks around quickly, grabs a nearby clay pot, and forcefully vomits into it. Dislodged from his perch and irritated by it, Pounce scampers away and hides in Anders' satchel, nearby. Leliana rubs Anders' back soothingly until the sickness passes, then helps him get to his feet so he can go to his washbasin.

This is when I remember about the something wet on my face and reach up. My fingers come away tacky and dark red, and I stare at it. "Were... were my _eyes_ bleeding?" I ask, voice thin and reedy.

Anders looks over at me, and he is positively haggard, but he gives me a smile anyway. "Hey, sweetheart," he says, normal as anything, then his brow furrows and he shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. "I've got scrambled eggs," he says, putting a hand to his forehead and swaying alarmingly. Leliana catches him and helps him to a chair. He immediately bends at the waist, sticking his head between his knees.

"The basin," I say quickly, and Lels gets it to him just in time, as he is sick again. "Oh gods," I whimper, frightened. He did this to himself just to save me. Us. How far did he have to reach to pull Zev back, too? The very idea terrifies me. That he could even do that! But at what price? Lyrium is toxic. "This is not okay," I whisper, and Alistair looks down at me, brushing my hair off my forehead. Somehow, he's got a cloth, when I wasn't looking, and he uses it to wipe away the blood from my cheeks and under my eyes.

"I thought I'd lost you," he murmurs, and the look in his eye, the terror, makes me take his hand, a tear rolling over my nose. He would be so frightened of losing _me_. Why? What is so special about me that people do these crazy things? He catches it with the cloth, and I see that it still has blood in it, a watery pink stain.

"You did," I say, pressing his hand to my cheek as he grimaces, and I can't help the fall of tears. "I saw my dad." My voice cracks, and I sob. Something in me aches terribly, something not physical. It's almost like my spirit is bruised. Alistair lets go of my hand to pet my hair, and I close my eyes as I hear Anders being sick again. "I'm so sorry." I don't want this. This is causing problems for other people, not just me. No matter what I do, I'll never escape the Crows, and neither will any of the rest of us, unless I leave this life and everything I have here, or...

somehow...

I'd have to not be tied-

Oh gods.

Is that even possible?

Dare I even think it?

_Fickle bitch!_

He's gone!

Anders eventually stops barfing and regains some of his colour, though he is very shaky. "Petra- No. _Lily_," he says, looking at me very seriously, though I can tell there's something not right with his mind at the moment. He's trying to fight through that, to speak clearly. "If you've got a heavy load, you secure it with chains. With chains," he repeats, then puts a hand to his head. "Logic, logic, er... Metal. People. Events." He pauses, his eyes going far away, and then he giggles at nothing in particular. "Sea foam and sand dollars," he says, and I blink. That's what my grandmother used to say when you asked what she was making for dinner before she'd quite decided. "I smell cake."

Cake? Wait a minute... He's looking at me, and his brown eyes are wide and kind of blank. "Anders?" I ask, my voice cautious, and he doesn't move, doesn't blink. "He's not blinking!" I say, alarmed, pushing myself up to sitting, but there's nothing I can really do. I mean, even at home, we're talking ct scans and stuff, when you suspect an aneurysm. What can we do, what can we do? _Think!_ Leliana looks sad and reaches up to close his eyes but I hold my hand out toward her quickly. "No! No, don't do that. We need another healer, and quick, we might not have much time. Please!" I look up at Alistair, pleading, and he is confused, I know he is, but he looks at Leliana and they both nod, rising and immediately going for the door. I can hear them murmuring outside as I haul myself off the bed and crawl over to Anders.

Alistair comes in as I crouch over him, tilting his face toward me. "You should be laying down," he says, no doubt noting my trembling hands.

"I know, just want to check him out." Pupils unevenly dilated, bad sign. I press my ear to his heart, finding it beating steadily, though too slow, his breathing shallow enough to be almost undetectable. "Stay with me, Anders," I murmur, because that's just what everyone says, and it makes you feel like you've got a grip on the situation, even when you don't.

"Should we lay _him_ down?" he asks, and I shake my head.

"No; internal head trauma-" A trickle of blood comes out of Anders' ear, and I bite my lip, forcing myself to calm because there are things that need doing. I put my hands forward to help, but Alistair stops me.

"You can't. I'll do it," he says, and holds out his hand. I only miss half a beat before I turn and grab the cloth, passing it to Alistair.

After a tense moment, nothing else happens, and I take Anders' hand. It's just a hand; that curious warmth has gone. Oh gods. I hold it in both of mine and lay my cheek against it, because there really isn't anything I can do. There are no hospitals here. We're _in_ the hospital. What do you do when your healer falls?

_This is not okay, Anders. You're not allowed to die for me, that's not how it works. You have to stand up. You have to fight this and don't die, not like this. That's not right._

It takes too much time. It takes hours. It takes days. Years. His eyes are glassy by the time Leliana hustles in with an older woman behind her. The woman takes one look at Anders and suddenly has her business face on. She comes over quickly, kneeling next to him, and I set his hand on his stomach, backing up. I've seen her before. She's Anders' herb woman, and they're fast friends. She asks a bunch of rapid-fire questions, how long has it been, has he lost consciousness, what caused it, and when I say lyrium, she scowls darkly.

"Fool!" she whispers fiercely, but her eyes speak pain and deep fear for him. Closing her eyes, she puts her hands to his head, and begins to chant. This is a kind of magic I'm more familiar with, and I cover my mouth as I watch her work. A slow, soft glow spreads out from under her palms to envelop the crown of Anders' head. My pentacle gets really hot and I scramble backward quickly, climbing up on the bed to get out of range of the magic, watching with wide eyes. This can't be happening. This man is a genius, he can't go down like this, this isn't an end that's worthy of him. No. Not because of me. Not for the Crows. No, no please...

There's nothing else I can do; I close my eyes and pray, just as I always do, thumb circling my little bone spiral. _Phoebus Apollo be with us in our hour of need, patron of healers, bring back thy son; his work is unfinished, he is so much more than this. Nimble Clotho, spin tight and strong his thread; wise Atropos lay down thy shears and cunning Lachesis weave his thread back into the tapestry uncut. Take from me, not him; he is suffering for saving me from my folly. Punish me, put it on my back, only do not let this man's light be snuffed-_

"Maker," Anders groans, and my eyes pop open wide.

_In thy honour, oh kind and generous Fates, I offer up three cradles, three coffins, and three rocking chairs, to be given freely into the community. Apollo, hear my humble praise and thanks, into thine hands I commend a worthy commission to the church of light. I am ever thy grateful servant._

I take a deep breath.

One must never forget to be grateful to the gods for their help. This is when it occurs to me that I once asked Loki for help, while I was here, and that I had promised him my next round of sex, if he would only let me escape the footpads who were following me. Not only did I serendipitously run into the Wardens just in the nick of time, but my 'next round of sex' was not at all when, who, what, how, why, or where I expected. At all. Ah, Loki, you hear me out here, as well.

Anders flops weakly, like a fish, turning his head, and the herbwife holds his face in her hands, studying him carefully. "Are you all right?" she asks, anxious.

He looks up at her, blinks a couple of times, then grins, his usual, cheeky self. "Well, that was interesting. Remind me to never take another Fade vacation. The scenery's nice, but the food is rubbish and travel is just vicious." I choke on a laugh, and he turns his head, giving me a tired smile. "Sorry, sweetheart, I couldn't let you go just yet."

I give him a trembling smile of my own. "I noticed! You- Don't do that again, though, okay? You scared everyone."

The herbwife finishes examining him and sits back, looking peeved, now that she's sure he's all right. When he turns his face back toward her, she hauls back her hand and slaps him, full-force. "Owww..." he complains, putting a hand to his face, but he takes it; Alistair looks like he's about ready to intervene, but all she does next is point at him.

"You! Did I not say? _Idiota! Quello ti uccise! Non mi spaventi!_" She gets after him in Antivan, calling him an idiot for almost killing himself and scaring her half to death. "No more lyrium!" she snaps, and he has the grace to look chagrined, but he apparently doesn't look like he's taking her seriously enough, because she grabs his face again, makes him look at her, and the worry I see writ there tells me I wasn't wrong to be concerned about his intake. "_Ti sarà arso ravvivarsi_," she whispers, passing a hand over his forehead, then kisses it softly, like a mother would. He can't burn himself out just to heal.

He sighs. "I know, Benina," he says, resigned. "I'll be more careful."

"Right, you will, for I am staying to make sure of it. I will see you quit of the blue poison," she says, folding her arms over her breasts and looking imperiously at him, and he bows his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, all right," he sighs. And then, after a moment, quietly, "Thank you."

Confident that he is in good hands, Alistair and I leave the clinic, or rather, he carries me out, because I'm not very steady on my feet. I undress when he sets me on his bed, laying down before he's even fully finished with himself, and then he climbs in over me, pulling me tightly against him. I realise he's shaking as he presses a kiss to my shoulder, and sigh softly as his kisses trail upward toward my ear, tilting my head so that my hair falls off my neck, baring it for him.

"I thought I'd lost you," he says again, voice cracking, and I realise just how much it would have gutted him. I cuddle backward against him, a few more tears tumbling from my eyes. It takes him hours to say with his hands, his kiss, his body, what he simply cannot express the depth of with those few words, and he is so careful, so gentle with me that it eventually makes me cry. "Oh Maker, no, don't cry. I'm not trying to make you cry," he says, distressed, and I shake my head, cupping his cheeks and kissing him passionately.

"It's just overflow, honey. Too much love; can't keep it all in," I whisper against his lips, and his breath catches.

"Love?" he echoes, voice husky, and I nod, my eyes squeezing shut tightly. I've never spoken of it with him, not since we began this... whatever it is between us.

I don't know if I can even speak of it now. It just fell out of my mouth, but I know. "It's true."

Ah, but he won't let me get away with that, pulling back slightly to look at me; his eyes, so dark, so serious. "What's true?"

Oh shit.

Say the words? Say the words.

Tiger, tiger...

_Aphrodite help me!_

"I... I feel so much... love for you," I stutter, and his expression changes, that strange little half-smile, partly 'did I hear that right' and partly 'you can do better than that'.

"What was that?" he asks, shifting against me and stealing my breath. Oh, not fair. I hesitate, and he kisses my throat. "It doesn't have to be complicated," he murmurs, breath washing across my skin, and I shiver.

"I love you," I whisper, heart in my throat, and it doesn't burn me. I gasp, shocked, and I can feel the smile against my skin.

"See? Was that so hard?" he asks, voice low, a note of amusement.

"Easy as breathing." No lie.

Oh gods, no lie.

"Then just breathe," he whispers, and starts all over again.

When we finally sleep, close to dawn, he refuses to let go of me, holding me tightly against his radiating heat as though he could protect me from the reach of the Crows just by wrapping himself around me. I wish he could.

The day is bright when we wake to banging on the door, and Alistair scrambles into his pants before opening it. I can _hear_ the Warden salute. "Ser! I have advance word of a visit from Patrizio Rescigno, but only by minutes!" Shit!

I dive out of Alistair's bed, sheet wrapped around me, and begin gathering my clothes in a big hurry, while Alistair gets more details. I'm not really paying attention to that, though, because I need to be the hell out of his office like yesterday. I can't be lurking around in here for hours while I wait for that blowhard Chantry zealot to get around to the point of telling Alistair that the Wardens have the Chantry's official sanction and support within the city for the next year.

By the time Alistair shuts the door, I'm holding all my things, plus the sheet around me, and he laughs when he turns around and sees me. I blink. "What?"

"Your hair," he says, then laughs again when I scowl at him.

"_Your_ fault," I say as he rummages in his trunk for a good doublet. Dropping the sheet, I shimmy into my clothes quickly. He chuckles.

"Hmm... guilty." He presses a quick kiss to my cheek as he passes me, heading to the washbasin, and I quickly buckle my belt and just pick up my boots.

"Right, I'm gonna go. I'll leave a message with someone if I end up going out and you're still busy."

I dash out of the office, Ponka on my heels, bolt down the hallway, and duck into my room, hopefully before anyone sees me. He flops down in front of the door while I strip again and wash up. This is when I look in the mirror, and see how frightful my hair really is. Good gods, I used to use a lot of Aquanet to get that effect.

It is while I'm cleaning up and brushing out my hair that I begin reflecting over last night's events, and the choice I need to make. I pace, pulling tangles through my fingers. I feel just as strong today as I did yesterday. Exercise plus sleep, apparently, and I'm none the worse for wear. Gods, I love Anders. I love this life. It's quiet and predictable, I have friends and family I can trust, I don't have to watch my back all the time, I don't have to check my food or my bed for traps, and I don't have to try to be worthy of love. I just have to _be_. If I leave this behind, even for a second, I'll lose it. All of it. That's so much to lose. So much.

And for what gain? A life on the run, constantly watching the shadows and fearful of my food, let alone sleeping, and never mind being able to continue working.

Madness. The choice is clear. There's really no choice here at all.

Cake or death? Oh, well, I'll have the cake then, please.

When I come out of my room, Marco is already on Alistair's door, holding his spear, and I sigh, walking up to him. "I really doubt he'll be out before I'm done, but just in case, if he comes out, tell him I've gone to the Strada Rosa, please." He leers, and I make a face at him. "You, ser, have a dirty mind," I say, pointing at him, because the Strada has a little bit of a _reputation_ in certain parts, but it's fairly classy.

He grins widely, leaning down toward me a little bit. "And apparently you also, Mistress, or you could not so easily guess what I was thinking, yes?" I blink, then blush hotly, putting a hand to my forehead, and he chuckles at me, straightening. "I will tell him." Alistair's second is an ass, but he's fucking good at his job. And he looks out for me. One time one of the Wardens in the hall grabbed my ass while I was in line for dinner. I yelped and Marco had him by the scruff in two seconds, hissing something in his ear that made the guy go pale, and he never came near me again. I don't know him as well as I'd like, because he's always so busy and has a family of his own, but he's a good man.

Ponka falls into step beside me as I head out the door. All the way there, I'm preoccupied with going over and over the things I could say, the questions I could ask, until I find myself standing in the street, right in front.

Ferrilin's shop doesn't look any different.

I hesitate, but I need to speak with her, and she's the only one that I _can_ talk to about this. Brushing aside the curtain, I step into the dim interior and wait for my eyes to adjust.

"Well," a smoky voice says, emanating from the darkness in front of me, and I recognize her. "I did not expect you to visit me alone," she says, and I sigh, nodding.

"I did not expect to visit. However... there are things I wish to discuss with you." There is a silence. My eyes finally working again, I see her lounged across the end of her couch, watching me carefully. "Please. You must know this could only be about him."

She pauses, pursing her lips shrewdly, then nods. "Yes, all right. Shut the door. I shall make tea." I nod, turning to close the door. Ponka growls, and when I turn around, she's got a crossbow pointed at me. I freeze, slowly putting my hands up, eyes wide, as Ponka's hackles rise and he readies himself to spring. "Why has he sent you?" she hisses, fierce and angry, and I blink. "I have given him his due, and more besides!"

"He didn't. I've come on my own," I say, shaken. "I haven't seen him in over a year. In fact, I lost him not three days after we were here." Slowly, she lowers her weapon, and I let my breath out, relieved. Ponka stands up and stops growling, but doesn't move from in front of me. "I wanted to talk to you about the things you saw when you looked at my future. I wondered if you'd look again."

She stares at me for a moment, then shakes her head, turning away, and puts the crossbow down. "Of all the fortune-tellers in the city, you come to me," she says, but I nod.

"Of course. He introduced me to you, and none other, which makes me inclined to trust you more than I would another." I watch her warily, and she pauses, caught in the act of pulling out her little box of stones and bones. She straightens, turning around, and gives me the most curious look.

"You are inclined to trust me because _he_ introduced you?" she asks, incredulous, and I nod, dead serious.

"He brought me here because he wanted to protect me," I say. I drop my bag and my cloak next to Ponka, then take the seat she gestures to. Before she even asks, I reach up and unclasp my necklace, laying it aside. She puts the board between us, and I put my hands on it, but she just looks at me for a long moment.

"Your amulets carry old magic I've never seen before, and I _know_ the old magic." I swallow, and nod. "Where are you from?"

I take a deep breath, then shake my head. "A place very, very, very far from here. Thedas does not exist on any map from my homeland, and mine does not exist on any map from here, no matter how far you travel, I can promise you." I take a deep breath, then point at my necklace. "The star represents the five elements," I run my finger over each of the points in turn, "Earth, air, fire, water, and spirit, in harmony with the gods," I say, circling the outer edge. "This is the spiral of life; it reminds us that every beginning is an end, and every end is a beginning: the cycle of life eternal. The crystal is an amethyst, the stone associated with the time of my birth, and is supposed to be proof against negative influence. The silver is to honour the goddess of the moon, who rules women, and the bone to represent the spirit of the living earth."

She stares at me, a mixture of dumbfounded surprise and respect hiding behind her eyes, though she tries to keep her face neutral.

"Will you tell me the name of your homeland?" she asks, curious beyond belief, but I shake my head with an apologetic smile.

"I have spoken it to none. I fear the consequences, as mythology from here leaks back to my land. I don't want my presence to become known, lest others come."

Her brow furrows; she cannot fathom why I would say this. "You would not wish them to see the beauty of Thedas?" she asks, inclined to be vaguely offended in defence of here, and I shake my head.

"No. Definitely not. If there were truly a clear way open between the two places, it would not take long for word to get out. From there, it's only a matter of time. If every army in all the world banded together to face an invading force from my homeland, they would only serve to be conveniently placed for disposal. Unfortunately, the leaders where I come from are not only powerful enough to command that kind of threat, but they are also maniacal and greedy enough to enforce it with breathtakingly ruthless callousness. I'm not just buying into the propaganda of my country's military prowess, either; I've seen what some of their weapons of war can do. It would be catastrophic, I promise you. So, no. I have no wish for them to see this place, because I like it here. The magic in my amulets, if they have any, comes from _there_."

She stares at me for a long moment, and hesitates, but asks the next question anyway. "And what of you? Are you a mage, in your land? You have a strange... ah... flavour."

I bite my lip. "Uhhh... I... guess? There... The idea of magic is really just a matter of faith. Not visible, not like here. It's hope, luck, and prayer."

She looks at me for a long moment, studying me carefully, then sighs, apparently coming to the decision that I'm serious. "I thank you for your truth. Let me see now if I may return the favour." Looking down at my hands, she surrounds them with her stones and bones; closing my eyes, I take deep breaths, and envision a doorway in my wall.

Then I open the door.

The pressure is tremendous, like trying to hold onto a tree in a hurricane wind. I can feel my breath coming faster as my brow furrows, and then suddenly the pressure is going the opposite direction, and the door slams of its own accord. I sigh with relief, and open my eyes to find her staring at me. I withdraw my hands and sit back, uncertain, as she shakes herself and sweeps her hand across the board, collecting her tools back into the box.

"I see heartbreak and death, sorrow and despair. But there is also a fluttering little light of hope, elusive. One wrong step will crush it out completely," she says, and I hang my head.

"You said the same thing last time."

She blinks at me. "I did? That is not a good sign. Have you experienced those things?" she asks, and I nod. She hisses, as though at a stinging wound. "This means that you still have more to come. I am sorry." I sigh, pausing as she tucks away her box. "I wish I had better news for you."

I bite my lip, hesitating, but I have to ask. "You saw the link that joins us." This is not a question. Her eyes snap up to mine, and I know she didn't expect me to know that. That was a conversation they had in Antivan. I take a deep breath. "Do you... Can you break it?" I ask abruptly, and she stares at me.

"You... You wish to _break_ it?" she asks, incredulous, and I bow my head, a couple of tears starting out of my eyes. Why does the notion hurt me so? I know it must be done. I _want_ it done.

_No, you don't._

Yes! I need this.

I cover my mouth with one shaking hand. How much do I dare spill? "There is a healer I know who is currently suffering the effects of severe lyrium poisoning, because he overextended himself in- in- dealing with this... link, trying to protect me from the effects of it. I can't have that happen. The man is my friend, and he almost died for this. I don't want my fate tied to someone else's anymore. I don't want to be constantly beholden to the Crows because of it. I want to make my own destiny."

She stares at me for a moment longer, then shakes her head sadly. "I am afraid this is not a thing I can do," she says, truly regretful. "It is the kind of magic that can only be unmade one way: in person, the same as it was made."

It's my turn to stare, and I swallow as a sick feeling of dread wells up in my stomach. "I- I have to meet with him?" I ask, my voice deserting me, and her look turns sympathetic.

"Again, I find I wish I had good news for you. I know, it is hard. He is a hard man."

He is. Oh, he is.

"No lie," I say, and swallow again.

"Now you have asked me questions, may I ask another of you?" Ferrilin arches an eyebrow at me, and I nod, nervously. "He seemed to be very sure of you. How is it that he abandoned you within days of calling you his wife?"

I grimace, the old pain howling at the door, and try to push it away. "The-" I swallow. It's been over a year. I need to get past this. "The healer I spoke of, he was protecting me. I had a very, very bad night, and I needed a lot of healing; I certainly would have died without him. When Z-" I sigh. I can't even say his name. "He had been gone for a few nights on business. When he returned, he found a few strands of the healer's hair on our bed, and became madly jealous, which was completely ridiculous. Some very bad things happened to me because he left in a fit of anger, and when he returned, I told him he could find another wife, if he believed me so faithless. And so he left, and I have never seen him again."

She looks at me for a long time while I try to stuff the pain back into its box. It's not going to stay there though, no, not this time. I still have to drag it back out again when I make my plans to face Zev. "If you wish it, I could ensure a message from you reaches him safely," she offers, and I look up.

"You would do that?"

"Yes. For you." She studies me a moment longer, then softly continues. "It rips at you. Devours your soul from the inside. It is like fire, his name burning even in your mind." I blink, staring at her, and she just nods.

She loved him too.

"It- It hurts, even now. I've moved on, I'm with someone else, but-"

"By the light of the sun, the candle flame is hardly visible. Though both are light, both will burn, only one is strong enough to brighten the entire sky." _My sunlight underground._ "I wish I could say to you words of comfort, but where that man is concerned, there are very few."

I sigh again, then nod once more. "Thank you, Ferrilin. Honestly, knowing that someone else understands helps. It really does. I don't feel quite so alone in it. I..." I pick up my necklace and put it back on. "I think I will be back, later in the day. I will want you to carry that message, yes... I just need to take care of a few things first, so I can reliably say what the message should be. Will you be here?" At her nod, I rise. "Then I'll return. As I will be out, is there anything I could pick up for you that would ease your day?" I offer on impulse, and she looks up at me, surprised.

She hesitates, then smiles. "I could very much enjoy a pot of honey," she says, and I grin.

"Done."

I drop a few silvers on her, take my leave, then head across the street to the little bistro. I get coffee and biscotti before even thinking about it, making myself sad enough that I almost don't have the heart to sit down and have it, but I need the caffeine, and I need a bit of a nibble before I head down to the docks.

I know exactly what I have to do.

I should probably talk to Alistair about this, but... It will have to wait until afterward. If I talk to him first, he'll try to talk me out of it, and besides, he's meeting with the Patrizio. I know it'd just be because he wants to protect me, but he can't protect me from Zevran. No one can. That's something I'm going to have to do for myself.

Protect me...

...from _Zevran_?

No.

Protect me from _the Crows_. Not even he can do that, as long as our lives are tied as they are.

_I don't want to-_

I slam the door on that thought and walk up to the harbour-master's office. He's not in, of course, but his clerk is, which is close enough. I wait patiently nearby until he finishes his line in the ledger and looks up, then offer him a smile. "Hi. I wanted to speak to someone about a fish hut," I say.

There are about half a dozen little houses at the end of long piers, scattered around the harbour, that are owned by the city. People can pay a fee to go in and fish, but you can only catch enough to feed your family. Anything more is forfeit to the port.

The important thing about the fish huts is that they're each isolated from the next, and they can only be used by appointment.

So, they're not always used for fishing, obviously. Particularly since they have trap doors in the bottom.

The clerk is surprised that I want to rent it for three days, but he's happy to take my silver.

I take another hike across the city, back to Ferrilin's, stopping by the marketplace along the way to pick up her pot of honey. All the while, I rack my brain for what I might say, how I might communicate my whereabouts, my request for him to join me, without laborious, coded metaphor that can be so easily misinterpreted.

Maybe I can write some of it in Elvish.

I sit in the gloom of Ferrilin's shop for a very long time, just staring at a blank sheet of paper, while she putters around in her kitchen, cooking something with the pot of honey I gave her that smells absolutely divine. Finally, I settle on writing down the location of the fish hut, and then beneath that, I write, "_Ar'an tan'vunin. Atisha? El elgar'him in'harel. Ar nuvenin ma'dirth._" _I will be here for three days_, I write, knowing that the Crows could never crack this code. _Peace? Our spirit grows ever more frightening. I need to speak with you._ Too bad I don't know the word for 'please' in Elvish, but I'm taxed to the limit on cleverness right now. I hate this shit.

I don't look at the fact that when I wrote 'I need to speak with you,' my quill hesitated over the word 'speak'.

_I need you._

No. I don't. I won't survive that.

I hand the paper to Ferrilin, not even bothering to seal it. What's the point? The message is indecipherable to anyone but us. We say our farewells, and she invites me to come back sometime.

The dread begins to eat at me before I've even made it back to the base.

I'm going to have to talk to Alistair about this.

I'm going to have to pack. I'll be gone for three days.

Maybe not. I don't have to hold myself to that, do I? No. If he shows up and things get bad, I can just leave.

I have no idea how this will go.

I don't want to see him.

_I do._

No. It's no good. That feeling is no good for anyone.

Marco's still at Alistair's door, so I just go into my room and start packing. I try not to think about it too much.

I have to do this.

_You realise you just said that you 'have to', right? You only say that about things involving him._

I know, Anders. But I can't let this happen to you again, either. Not if I have the power to stop it.

Once my bag is packed, I pace for a minute, then decide I'd better see Leliana. I can't just leave without telling people. Right? Right. The fact that I want to should be a red flag. Especially since this concerns Zevran.

Oh, my heart, you have no right to thud like that. Betrayer.

I find her in the Warden's hall, sitting on a table and playing her lute. She glances up when I come in, then pauses and looks at me again. "Something more has happened," she observes. "You've been gone all morning, and you didn't say a thing to anyone." I sigh shortly, then nod.

"I told Marco." I cover my face with my hands, shaking my head. "I can't go on like this," I continue, dropping them again, pleading with her to understand. "I want it to end, and Ferrilin says it can only be done in person. She'd know, and she would have helped me if there was anything to do. So I'm going to meet with him, and... see if I can do that. I'll be gone for three days. Maybe less, but no longer."

Her fingers still on the strings, halting the sound. "Have you spoken to Alistair?" she asks, bluntly, and I shake my head, colouring. "Good luck. I imagine he will have a great deal to say."

"And you?"

Having looked down at her instrument, she glances back toward me, and shakes her head. "I know just by the set of your shoulders there isn't a thing I can say to dissuade you. I worry for you, sweetling, but you know your way home. I suggest you take Ponka with you."

I bite my lip, then dash over and hug her. She moves the lute aside, wrapping her arm around me. While I'm close to her ear, I whisper the location of the house, and she nods, then presses a kiss to my cheek.

Next, I pop into the shop and tell Brizio I'll be gone, then head over to the clinic to check on Anders. He's sitting at his desk, writing, just like all the time; even if his hands shake a little bit, he looks almost exactly the same as ever, and it brings tears to my eyes. He looks up, and I rush up on him, but I'm careful not to lean on him too hard when I throw my arms around him and hug him tightly. He wraps his arms around me, and I can feel the sunlight in his hands again, where it should be. That, all by itself, is more of a reassurance than I can even express, and it releases a lot of the tension in me.

"I'm going to be gone for a few days," I murmur, and he tenses. "I have to try and break the link."

He pulls back, holding my shoulders and pushing me far enough away that he can look at me. "What are you going to do?" he asks, wary and very, very serious.

"I don't know," I say, honestly. "I can't plan ahead for that. Like you said, there's not exactly a whole lot of research into the area. The only things I know are that it has to be done in person, and it can't be unmade by anyone but us. So, I have to go."

"You should be taking someone with you," he says, "Have you spoken to Alistair?"

I sigh. "Not yet. He's still in his office. But I'm taking Ponka with me. That will have to be enough."

"I don't like this. You should be _here_-"

"Safe?" I ask softly, and he pauses, the pain in his eyes showing me he knows how futile the argument really is. "I just needed to come and make sure for myself that you're okay. You scared the life out of me. You acted like you had a burst blood vessel in your brain," I tell him, brow furrowed, and he stares at me. He's used to me suddenly and randomly popping up with medical knowledge that I technically shouldn't have, but sometimes I still surprise him, I guess.

"I... did," he says, not sure what to do with this, and I bite my lip.

"That's not entirely fixable, is it? The brain doesn't normally regenerate." Slowly, he shakes his head, reluctantly, and I press my lips together firmly. "So there you have it. I can't be the cause of that kind of thing. I refuse." I grab his hand as he opens his mouth to protest, and shake my head. "I don't care if it was your choice. I can't stand it, the idea that your life was in danger because of _me_. I can't. So I'm going to go and see what I can do about this, to protect my family. I'll be back soon."

I stand up, and he shakes his head. "There's no talking you out of this, is there, sweetheart?" he asks, and I just shrug.

"Yeah, that's pretty much what Lels said."

"Hmmh. Well, good luck explaining it to Alistair," he says, and I snort.

"Yeah, she said that, too."

"Hmmm... Smart woman. You'd be wise to listen to her."

"It was never wisdom that brought me here," I reply, backing toward the door with a wave. "I've got to go. I'll... I'll see you soon," I say, patting the doorjamb as I slip around it.

I'm crossing the courtyard again, headed for the hall with Alistair's office and my room on it, when his door opens, so I turn and make a beeline for a different hall as I hear the Patrician coming out, Alistair right behind him. I duck around a corner before I'm spotted, but I can still see them if I peek. Marco has moved to one side, toward me, to allow them unimpeded access to the front gate, but he totally saw me change direction mid-stride, and he sees me now. He looks right at me and makes a face, sticking his tongue out at me. I make the face right back, and Alistair catches the motion out of the corner of his eye, turning his face slightly. The Patrician has his back to us, fortunately, but Alistair has to pass a hand over his face to not laugh while he's trying to be serious with the noble. Feeling bad, I pull my head back and wait.

Now that I've decided to go, there's a pull. It's like when I was on the street, that feeling of needing to move, needing to just _travel_. No waiting. My feet itch. It seems like forever before their voices retreat down the hall, but I'm finally able to creep out and slip into Alistair's office, where I sit down and wait, fiddling with the hem of my tunic. This part, though... I am not looking forward to.

He closes the door softly, then stands behind my chair and puts his arms around my shoulders. "How are you feeling?" he asks, and I wince, because I'm about to upset him, and there's really nothing to be done about it.

"I'm here to talk to you about that," I say, hanging my head, and he stills. Slowly, he withdraws, standing up behind me, and I let my fingertips trail along his arms, so hopefully he knows it's not about a problem between him and me. He sighs, his hands resting on my shoulders, and then they flex, kneading the incredibly sore muscles at the base of my neck. Anders may have taken away the structural abnormality and injuries that made it hurt like holy hell all the time, but it's still where I carry all my tension. I groan, head lolling, and lean back against him. He chuckles, brushing my hair out of the way and works his way up my neck.

"So what is it?" he asks, and I bite my lip.

"I've got a lot to tell you, but I'm not sure you're going to like it. First, I want to say that I'm actually fine. More fine than I would have expected. It's like nothing happened at all... which is weird. I'm not sure if that's a good sign or not... so... I went to visit Ferrilin." His hands falter a bit, but keep going. "I took Ponka with me, but Ferrilin saw things that no one else has mentioned, things that Anders would have said by now. So I went to find out what she knew about the connection between me and- and Zevran." I swallow. Oh, how his name burns in my mouth. Alistair's fingers comb through my hair, stroking along the edges of my round ears. "I asked her how to break it."

"What did she say?" The question, whispered hoarsely above me, hurts. I wish I could say that it's already over.

I catch his shield hand, pressing my cheek into it, my words murmured into his fingers. "It can only be unmade the same way it was made: in person. No one can undo it for us. And... so... I set up a meeting. I'm going to go there, and I've arranged to stay for three days. Maybe less, but no more. Then I'll be back, no matter what happens, but I intend to break it, if I can. I want it to end."

His fingers twitch, and he takes a deep breath. He's struggling to keep his voice neutral, I can tell. "You're going to meet with him alone?"

"I'll have Ponka with me." There's a long pause, and then the hand that strokes my hair so gently is shaking.

"But he likes Zevran," he protests, voice slightly strained, even though he's still trying to sound nonchalant.

"He won't fail to protect me. Look, I can't let this happen again. I will not be responsible for-" I choke, the image of Anders' wide, staring eyes still haunting me. "No, no not like that. He's so much better than that. That can't be because of me, or Zevran, or the Crows. The gods-damned _Crows_!" I bite my lip, taking a shaking breath, then continuing on in a more reasonable tone. "They've already taken more than enough away from me. I won't have them starting in on my family."

"He won't do that again-"

"No. No he won't. And I don't want to see that look in your eyes, ever again."

"I knew when we started that you were connected like that-"

"Sometimes the complicated thing is necessary so that the easy thing is possible," I say, and he stops, looking down at me helplessly. I grimace. I have no idea what I'm doing. This is stupid, crazy. I'm going to get myself hurt. I've just gone off and done a bunch of shit without checking with anyone, and then told them about it afterward, and now I'm going to go down to my room and pick up my bag and go spend three days in a stupid fish house.

What am I thinking?

_You just have to see him._

No, I have to break this bond. The only way to do that is in person. Just focus.

I stand up, knowing if I stay too much longer, I'll lose my resolve. "Alistair, I have to go."

I can see the hesitation in him, but I know now, it's not because he was trying to be overbearing or overprotective, it's because he could see the parts of Mahariel that didn't match, and he wanted to protect _that_. _Me_. He reaches out, cupping my face in his hands, and kisses me, softly at first, though it quickly grows more heated, more insistent, more demanding. I'm trembling and breathless before he steps back, his eyes dark. "Come home soon, love," he whispers, then kisses me again, just once. This isn't easy for anyone. I have to tear myself away, but once I'm moving, if I don't get out of here quick, I'm not going to leave at all. I grab my bag from my room and head into the Wardens' hall to stuff my satchel full of things that won't perish quickly: cheese, bread, some fruit, a couple bottles of wine. I grab a covered bowl of roasted meat and couscous, enough for a full meal, and stick that in at the bottom. That should be enough.

Heading out the door, I whistle for Ponka, and he comes bolting up to trot along proudly beside me.

The fish house is small, but there is a bare, wooden, double-sized cot; a small cabinet; a washstand with an old, chipped pitcher and a fairly good-sized basin; a bucket by the counter and a pot under the bed. There's a lantern with oil in it hanging from the rafters, and a window that faces the sea, two chairs and a table beneath it. The cot's just big enough for Ponka to squeeze under it and not be smooshed. There are pegs on the wall, and I use one of them to hang up my pack. I'm not going to think about why I'm here. Not now. I'm not. I'm not going to make any plans, have any hypothetical conversations, I'm just going to wait, and see what comes. Right. I unfurl my bed roll and set up my pallet, then sit down at the table with the deck of cards to play Patience.

I hate this game.


	28. The Chain

I've exhausted my patience with Patience, even with all the forms of it I know, and read until my eyes crossed. Now I sit in the purple velvet darkness just after the setting of the sun, lit lamp hanging from the ceiling, carving notches in the mane of a knight chess piece. I can't believe I'm doing this.

_Don't think about it._

Right. I'm just carving a chess piece. Pieces get lost in the Warden hall all the time. I think maybe I should speak to Donal about the idea of making forms for clay pieces that can be mass produced less expensively. I'm getting tired of making chess sets. Then again, if I keep going, they could be my bread and butter. I mean, so many people here have never been introduced to the ga-

There's a knock at the door.

My heart immediately leaps into my throat, and I swallow, feeling myself go pale as my grip tightens on my carving knife. "Who is it?" I call out, and there is a pause.

It's him.

_"Ar dar'an, vir'elvarel asha."_

_I am here, woman who walks the difficult path_.

Or _does things the hard way_... hard to tell.

_It's him_.

I set the knife and half-finished chess piece on the table, wiping my sweating hands on my jeans. Oh gods. His voice. My heart is already pounding as my shaking fingers fumble at the latch, then I bow my head as I open the door, standing aside. I realise I'm holding tightly to it, and make a conscious effort to step away. I'm also only looking at the toes of a pair of boots. In the next instant, my gaze is dragged upward almost against my will. He's leaner, harder, but his shoulders are still the same width, his hands long-fingered and graceful, the line of his jaw sharp enough to cut my heart to ribbons on again, the curve of his tattoo over his cheekbone, pointing to the corner of his mouth, oh gods, his lips- finally meeting the molten honey gold that slays me, strikes me speechless, hits me in the chest like a hammer blow and has me fighting for air.

All these things happen to me, fly through my brain, in the space of a heartbeat.

That horrible, howling darkness wells in me like a dark flood, and I choke on it, tears springing to my eyes. This is not okay, I do not want to be helpless in the face of this. Quickly, I turn, tearing myself away, leaving the door open, and go back over to the table, look out to sea, trying to master myself.

The door closes softly, the latch clicking over, and I take a shuddering breath. I heard these things because he chose for me to hear. He didn't have to make a sound with them, if he didn't want to. I reach up, clutching my necklace between my fingers. _Aphrodite give me strength._

He moves around the side of me, into my peripheral, and leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. "You wished to see me," he prompts, and I have to firm my resolve. Oh, his voice.

_You've been gone so long._

"Yes. Surely you understand why."

_Kiss me, oh gods, please, just once._

No. It's long over. These echoes cannot pull me in.

"I believe I do. You wish to know what happened?" he asks, but I shake my head.

_Tell me we're safe now, that you took care of it._

"No. It doesn't really matter, does it? It'll only happen again." My voice is a frozen wasteland.

_Tell me you're here to take me home._

"Your faith in me is heartwarming," he says dryly. I can feel my lip curling as I bare my teeth, and I round on him, suddenly wildly angry.

"Don't you _dare_ speak to me of _**faithlessness**_!" I shout, completely unhinged for a moment and shocking the hell out of him, then have to turn away again, covering my face with my trembling hands. Oh gods. Oh gods. This was a bad idea. I can't keep my shit. Oh gods. I can't get a grip. The tears set my eyes on fire, and I take a dragging heave of air, trying to swallow all of it back while the silence stretches on between us.

Eventually, he says, "Perhaps you could tell me what it is you wished to speak of."

This provides me with something to focus on, something stable, and I take another shaking breath, my voice mostly back under my command once I clear my throat. "Uh. Yeah. So... I was told that the... the link... can, uh... It can only be broken in person," I say, falling to a whisper at the end. I can't turn around, no. Oh gods.

"You wish to... _break_ the link between us," he repeats carefully, rending a jagged furrow in an old scar, blood seeping out between my fingers as I clutch desperately at my barely-healed heart.

_No!_

"Yes," I say, choking on it. _Aphrodite preserve me_.

"You are lying," he says softly, the hot whiskey burr stroking down my spine and making me shiver. Oh gods. This was a bad idea.

_Touch me, please, please, oh gods, just once-_

"Yes," I say again, choking on this as well, tears of shame burning my eyes again as I shake, trying to keep my cool and failing completely.

"You cannot even look at me," he continues. "How am I to take you seriously, hm?" Oh, his words, so cold. A slap in the face. I wish I could hate him.

I wrap my arms around my waist and sit down in the chair, head bowed, trying to pretend I'm not shaking. "I know. It- It's hard enough-" I swallow. "It's hard enough to just- b-be here," I stutter. "I- I know you've- I mean, you must have so much more- Important things to- to take care of," I continue, then curse under my breath. _Get a grip!_ "B-but I thought, after last night, it would probably be a lot less... dangerous... for both of us... if we weren't..." I can't even say it.

_We are tied._

We don't have to be. It's just magic. It can be unmade.

_Take me home._

No! Stop it, stop it!

"You still cannot look at me," he says mildly, but I can hear behind it the very wary politician that he has no doubt become, and it makes me shiver.

"It hurts too much," I admit.

"It hurts you to _look_ at me?" he asks, surprised. "Why?"

"B-Because- Because I-" I swallow. I haven't looked at this, not since then, and it burns. "I tried so hard, to keep up with you, to prove myself- But- Nothing was enough. I wasn't good enough and I f-failed you again, after all. I just _broke_," I confess, all in a sudden rush, like emotional vomit, unable to stop the words from falling out of my mouth. "If I had just been stronger, Anders wouldn't have had to come into the Fade after me, and then you wouldn't-"

I become aware of the toes of his boots between mine, in front of me, and come screeching to a halt as I quiver. He's so close, I can feel him, and I grimace, my fingers digging into my sides hard, just trying not to reach for him, just trying not to sob. _Get a grip!_

There is a tense pause. "There is something I very much need to know. When I left, I put a thing for you on the bed. Did you find it?"

I snort. "What, my payment? _That_ 'thing'?"

There is another pause, and then his voice is very carefully neutral. "Payment?"

"You think I didn't know what it meant, that pouch full of silver? After I handed you back the earring that I refused as payment in the first place?" I ask, my voice rather higher-pitched than I would like from the stress, but steady at least. Gods, he's so close, so close...

_Just reach out your hand._

I ball my fists in my tunic.

There is another silence. He just stands there in front of me, and I sit, hunched over, arms around my waist, my hair shrouding my face and hanging down to my elbows. At last, when he speaks, his voice is hoarse, which makes no sense to me. How could this cold man be having an issue with something here? Please. Maybe he's just upset that I knew what it meant. "What did you do with the pouch?"

"I gave it all to Anders, to help with his clinic. What did you expect me to do with it?"

His voice has taken on a tiny note of alarm. "Did you not even count it?" he asks.

I just shake my head. "Nope. Didn't care. I saw what it was, closed it up, and flung it in my trunk. I never even looked at it again until last Cloudreach. That's when I gave it to Anders."

"Aie, Maker- No, there was something in the bottom-" he says, and I laugh mirthlessly.

"What, the compulsion magic? Yes, I know. It worked rather well, too. Ruined my morning." There is yet another silence, and my mouth twists with bitterness. After all that has happened, I still can barely face him. His voice is shredding me.

"Ah... I never put any magic into the pouch."

I pause. "But.. It dragged me across the floor. It-" I swallow, my voice deserting me anyway. "It was like the year had never passed. Raw and bleeding, in an instant."

"What happened to it?" he asks, his voice low, as though he's afraid of the answer.

"Anders took it, to break its hold on me. It stopped immediately when he left the room, so I let him keep it. I never saw it again. It felt like I needed to get my hands on it, but with the way it wrecked me, it didn't seem like such a good idea on second thought."

He sighs heavily. "_Braska!_" he whispers vehemently, then paces the short few steps across the room several times before coming to a stop in front of me again. "Consider for a moment that the silver was _not_ a message," he says, and I still. What? "There were two hundred and seventy-eight pieces of silver in that bag. I know, because it was all that was left." He doesn't have to say from when. I know. From the Blight. I put a hand to my forehead, resting my elbow on my knee, my eyes closing. Oh gods. "I cannot account for everything, though I do try. It simply did not occur to me that you would not at least _count_ the coin, even if only once. You always-"

"No," I cut him off, hoarse though my voice is. "I never. You never saw _me_ with a lot of coin. Mahariel was a compulsive coin-counter. She liked shiny things. As long as _I_ was with you, you always had the purse. I didn't care, it's just a fact."

Another pause. The silences, they are agony. He sighs heavily once more, and I hear his back hit the wall, then he slides down it, propping his elbows on his knees. I can see him now, everything but his face. If I look up, I'll be caught. He'll see my eyes, and then there can be no hiding, no logic. I can't afford that. He basically mirrors me, hand hiding the upper half of his face, and as he bows his head, turning it to the side, the defeat settles into his shoulders; I can just see the line of his jaw as he speaks.

"This explains much... _so_ much. I apologise, sincerely, for I simply did not expect you to view it that way. It was the furthest thing from my mind, that you might believe it a payment of some sort, because, you see, the earring was wrapped in that paper. How could it be a payment? I wished for you to keep all of it." His breath hitches, and a sort of numb coldness washes over me. He is rocking the foundation of everything I've built in the last eighteen months or so, and I don't want that. I want to be stable. No. Please, no. "Ahhh... _Lily_," he murmurs, saying my name with so much despair that it clenches my stomach. "I played my part too well."

Oh _no_.

_No, no, don't tell me these things_-

"'Part'?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"_Sì_," he says, and then he begins to tell me what happened, when he left me that first night, to do reconnaissance on the Crows, spying on Lothrein and visiting Ignacio. It's after he tells me about how they planned the poisoning that things take a turn for the worse.

"There was no sleep to be had that night, and neither for Salvail, nor Ignacio; Cesar joined us shortly before the dawn. I visited Ferrilin, and made contact with those who would provide us the materials we needed. The woman who met you was sent by Salvail; Enzo was approached by Cesar, and the message for you to meet Salvail's woman was given, while I was on other business. Not knowing how long it would take for Enzo to reach you, I felt it was prudent to simply look after you, once I had finished. So it was that I found myself standing in the shadows outside the training yard, to overhear a most _interesting_ conversation. Can you guess what I heard then?" he asks, and I blink.

"What?" I ask, because I have no flippin' clue. I spoke with Alistair that day. I told him that I wasn't going to leave Zevran, and then we sparred, and then Enzo showed up. "Uh... that was the conversation where Alistair tried to convince me that being married to you was a bad idea?" I venture. "I disagreed."

He smirks. "Ah, but you did not. Shall I quote you? I remember well the things you said that day. They are the point by which all else turned."

I swallow. What could I have possibly said? I told him no. I pushed him back. "What did I say?" I ask, mouth suddenly gone dry.

"Hmmm... You said to him that it was not an easy thing for you, to be caught between him and myself, and that you trust him completely, which was difficult to hear, but this, I knew. It is what you said after, Lily. After that." His voice is tight with barely controlled emotion, and I swallow hard. What did I say, what did I say? "You told him that you loved him, and you did not speak of it in the past, but of the moment," he says, and the bottom drops out of my stomach. Every word of his next sentence hits me like a thrown brick. "I listened to you tell Alistair that you loved him, that you desired him, that you wished to be with him, that it would be easy, that you knew you would be safe, and then you pushed him away, because you felt you had no choice. That you must, for my sake, no matter the consequence. You said these things, and I heard you, though there are times when I wish I had not. I knew then that I had been blinding myself."

"Blinding... yourself...?" I whisper hoarsely. My heart is made of lead: cold, heavy, poisonous. These words... this isn't how I meant them, not at all, but... my undoing, no less. For him to hear it that way, and from my own mouth. I am damned.

"You said to me, more than once, that you find the life difficult and frightening, but still you wished to stand beside me, and I was content to have it so, for..." He pauses and exhales sharply, laughing at himself bitterly, under his breath. "Ah, but I am a selfish man, and I wished for you to be with me. It was then, however, that I realised you only did so because you, too, were blinded. I thought perhaps, once the business with Lothrein was ended, we could speak of it, determine together what the future might hold."

I let out a shaking breath and press the heels of my hands to my burning eyes. At least he didn't question whether I loved him. That's something, right? He growls softly, then changes the subject abruptly, going back to his recounting of the events of that week.

"I took Enzo from the Warden compound directly after he spoke with you. It took me the rest of the day, but I finally extracted from him a confession as to what he had told the Crows, and that is when I learned of the glyph, and the demon." I never quite understood the concept of something someone says making your blood chill, until just now, as he casually glosses over the fact that he spent an entire day torturing a man. He mentions it so blithely, just like, 'oh, I went to the market and got some bread'. I shudder as a sudden bolt of fear runs down my spine. I'm locked in a room with this man; he could do anything he wanted to me, and I'd never be able to stop him.

It's a fortunate thing for me that he doesn't see me in that light.

"I went directly back to the base, hoping to avert disaster," he continues, so much pain in his voice, and the worry evaporates under the powerful pull to go to him, put my arms around him and try to take away his suffering. I run my fingers through my hair and put my head down on my knees. "I was too late, and found you asleep next to Anders in a room that stank of lyrium and fear. Your face was pale and drawn, the circles under your eyes deep with shadow, and I knew you had slept poorly, if at all. I wished I could lay down next to you but I had other matters to attend, and so I left you safe in his hands."

I should be bleeding, it cuts so deep.

_Oh gods. No. No it can't be. No please..._

He continues doggedly, a litany it seems he's played over and over in his mind. I must admit, I've done much the same, though I try so hard not to look at it.

"I could not be present at the party, as my face is too well-known amongst that crowd, but I heard from many that you were so innocent it was painful to watch, and you were the talk of the evening, for being such a novelty."

"Innocent? Wait a minute, that night, you said I was there to 'showcase my innocence', but I thought you meant as to the crime. I'm not an innocent. Especially not by then," I protest, looking up at him.

"You are a child," he scoffs. "To those eyes and to this game, you are clearly blind, and it shows. We are simply fortunate that the mood of the guild ran toward the charitable that evening, and they found you charming rather than appetizing. There were wagers - many, many wagers - as to how long it would take for you to become jaded, at what point it would occur, and there was even a little bit of side-action as to who would be the one with the honour of causing the break, or whether you would simply and quickly perish instead."

He pauses and I swallow back the bile. All those smiling, polite faces. I knew there was intrigue and back-biting, yes, but I never dreamed it involved me, not right from the start, no. Naive, yeah. I'm lucky I'm not dead. In fact, the only reason I yet live is that he's been strong enough to make this happen, and I've thought the worst of him, all this time.

"I thought about this, seeing you hardened to the life of a Crow, knowing as I did that it was not what you wanted, but only something you viewed as the price you must pay to be at my side. I thought about things you said, the few times you spoke of children. You spoke as though you would never be a mother, though you wished for it desperately, and I noticed that it all danced around the idea that you felt it would be unsafe to raise them, let alone have them, and you would not do so as long as you were with me, even though you wished to. I noticed that you were constantly frightened, and did not feel safe, except for the moments when I was holding you, and of course, I could not do that all the time. I could not even guarantee that I would be present for the times when you truly _needed_ me, let alone the times when we merely wished to be together."

And there it is. It's a fact: I did need him. I was lost without him, didn't know what to do with myself, and got myself into all kinds of trouble when he wasn't there. All the while, I wished for him, even knowing that he had work he needed to do, and that I must try to stand up tall. I never could, though I tried... and he saw it. He saw all of it.

"By the time I met up with you and Leliana in the garden, I had become resigned to the fact that, no matter what we desired, I could not bring you with me into the mess that would follow that night's activities. They were merely the fount from which a river of blood flowed, and if I wished to keep you from it, I could not wait another day. There was no other way to protect you but to let you go, and I knew, I _knew_ that I could not simply leave you, and expect it to be enough. I knew you would fight, I knew you would try to follow, to stand by me, and I could not have it. Nothing I could ever say to dissuade you would be effective."

He knew. He knew before he even sat down with me. He walked with me, like nothing was wrong, letting me think that everything was fine, and he knew he was going to leave me. I swallow hard, knowing what's coming, and I don't want to hear it anymore. I can't stand it. I'm the one who broke us.

"No. The only way to make you turn from the path you felt forced upon was to cause you to think it was no longer available to you. I had hoped that we would have the night; I wished to have that one sweet moment of reunion, but it was not to be. I watched the way you swayed as we went upstairs. I saw your hands, how white they were, how you chaffed them to try to warm them, and the slight tinge of blue in the nails. I saw how you stretched, and the stiffness in your joints, and knew you had been poisoned, though you did not yet feel it. There was not much time, judging by the sweetness of your breath, and so I had to think quickly.

"I did not have any idea what I meant to do until I sat down on the bed, and saw the hair upon my pillow. Jealousy, that wicked devourer of hearts. The accusation that you would be untrue, unfaithful, not three days after I named you wife, after all that you had done, I knew, would unravel much in just one stroke, but that my lack of presence during your crisis would do the rest. Leaving without speaking to you again would be the final slap. And so... I- I did these things, no matter how it ripped at me to lose you again, because it was what you needed to see to let you turn back before it was too late."

I should have left it alone. Believing he'd thought me fickle hurt less. I grit my teeth, shoulders hunching as he piles on the stones.

"When I came to hand over Enzo and fetch the necklace, they all three of them argued with me that I could not possibly have been serious in my thoughts of your infidelity, and I was forced to defend my position, though it made me sick to do so. And there you stood in the doorway, still in the dress, with bruises all over you... I wished nothing more than to take you in my arms, to beg forgiveness and swear my life to you again, to take you from Antiva, abandon all, and simply live, as you suggested, on some barren island, away from everything. But these were impossible things. The necklace needed returning, and so to Ferrilin I went, keeping my end of the charade."

The bitter irony is when they spoke against him, they also spoke for him. All the words that he could not use, himself, to convince me, came from them instead, though they didn't know at the time what they were truly doing. He played me, and all of us, just... not how I thought. I feel like I should be ashamed of how predictable I am.

There is a pause, as he chokes, his breath stuttering, and I swallow hard. I wish I had never asked. Why did I think it would be a good idea to go digging in the graveyard?

"Your face, Lily. It was your face, seeing what you had borne through the night in my name, that haunted me across the city and back again... and every night since. Nearly, I did not return, but in the end, I lost my resolve. I came to find you crumpled on the floor, and meant to explain; I meant to bring you home with me, to find some way to protect you, perhaps bury you behind ranks of Crows loyal only to me, give you a constant guard, something. Anything. But as I bent to do so, you eliminated the option. You had the strength where I did not."

Strength? It felt like such weakness.

"I knew that you would turn to Alistair, in time, because you desired him, and he could give you the life you also desired. Peace, safety, a home. A family, perhaps. Things I could not then, nor cannot now give you, no matter how I might wish to. Things that you deserve to have."

"So do you," I protest. "I wanted those things with _you_."

He coughs softly, perhaps trying to cover a laugh. "No," he says flatly, "That life is a fantasy. I could arrange for _you_ to have these things, but at a price. I could not simply walk away from you. This, they would never believe, and you..." He sighs, resigned. "You are too innocent to pretend such a thing had occurred between us. You had to believe it, or no one else would either, and it had to be your choice, else you would never let go of me. I could not be selfish, not then, not now, though I faltered. Ah, Lily, but you reach the weakness in me. The only way I could protect you - indeed, both of us - was to cause you to reject me, publicly. We were overheard by the servants, and all was reported to the Crows."

There's another chill. The only servant we've replaced since then is Serena, after she left the night Alistair and I finally... gave in. That means... the servants are still reporting to the Crows. Which means Zevran knows what I've been up to.

"And have I not given you what you desired, after all? You have a safe and stable life, predictable and quiet, and a man in your bed who can keep it that way, who loves you and will never stray nor cause you harm, who will always be there when you need him." There, and that proves it. How could he know we've been sleeping together, otherwise? I feel my face burning with shame, for this, for all of it. I am such a fool. "You could even have a child, if you so wished, and never have to fear for its safety, beyond the natural fears of any parent. I have given you all that I can: protection from the Crows, every piece of our silver-"

"But no _you_!"

He exhales softly, and when he speaks again, his voice is tight with terrible strain. "No. None of the rest of it could be, if I stayed. I am sorry."

I put my head down on my knees, shaken. Everything I thought, all the anger toward him that I have pent up, it was all wrong. Wrapping my arms around my legs as something hard and brittle within me breaks, I quietly begin to weep, all that fury evaporating and giving way to despair. I was right. I wasn't good enough, wasn't strong enough to stand at his side. My own words betrayed me. My own coward's heart betrayed me. "I'm so sorry, Zev. I tried-"

"No. _Amora_, no." There is a pause, and I shudder at the sound of the endearment. So long without his voice, the sound of that word in my ear, from his lips, tugs on me in a very visceral way.

"D-d-don't c-call me th-th-that," I stutter, begging him, my shoulders shaking. "It h-hurts, it hurts so m-much and-and I d-don't deserve it. I'm not fast enough, strong enough... such a coward-"

"Tch. You are quick, and brave, and strong, Lily. You are. What you are not, is a Crow, and I could not break you that way, not in the end, not when I heard it from your own lips that it was not what you wanted. You know that is what the Crows do, yes? Break people, in one way or another?" He exhales sharply as I choke on my misery. "I cannot change where I come from; you knew what I was from the very start," he murmurs, resigned.

"I knew what you _did_, but I could see behind all that, I could see the man that you are. Were, maybe... I don't know."

"I, too, saw the woman behind all of it, but I cannot leave all the things in the way behind, as you did." And then, after a moment, "Can you still not look at me? Have I become so hated?" he asks, softly.

"Never," I say, my voice breaking, and then I whimper. "But- You're too close... Now that I know... If- If I look- If you touch me-" I swallow, and I know my shaking is visible. "I'll break; I'll just break."

There is a long, long silence, and after a time, I have to lift my head a bit just to make sure he's still there. He hasn't moved, head bowed and shoulders slumped. I've never seen him look so beaten, and it is a depth of agony I cannot bear. Always, always he is proud and tall, and to see him here, on the floor, it's too much. I am out of my chair and on my knees before I even know what I'm doing. This isn't right. These people I'm hurting, just by existing. If it weren't for the fact that I'd be taking him down with me, I do believe I'd become suicidal in short order.

"I'm so sorry, Zevran," I whisper brokenly, a fresh flood of tears falling down my face, and I cover it with both hands, sitting on my heels on the floor. "I tried to reach for a life I don't deserve, don't have any right to. I just- I just love you so much, I couldn't help myself- I wanted to touch you, even though I shouldn't have, because you weren't mine, and here it is, you aren't, because I'm not strong enough to stand at your side. I'm sorry I took her from you; I'm so sorry. You need her, and she's not here, and that's my fault." I choke, remembering for an instant the face of that sweet child, my heart shattering on it. "I wish you could have come to me, instead. I never wanted to hurt you."

His breath is ragged, his voice barely steady, something akin to fury barely held in check stealing my air as surely as a punch to the gut. "Do not cheapen yourself!" he snaps, making me look up suddenly, meeting his wild eyes, pinning me there with the force of the grief that lives also within me. "I do these things for you, Lily, for _you_, the strange woman from another world who somehow managed to fall in love with me _through a pane of glass_. For _myself_, and not because of the things I could make you feel with my hands, with my body, as others have, because you could never truly touch me," he says fiercely, teeth bared, then takes another deep breath, looking down and away, his voice dropping as he continues.

"To know for certain that it had not been simply my caress that kept you at my side... and how could I honour this impossible thing? Drag you through endless death and bloodshed, watching your spirit slowly die, your innocence and light, everything that _I_ love, eroded and stripped away? You were already becoming fatalistic. You are too gentle for this life, yes, but do you know how precious that is, how rare? What could a soul like you see in a killer like me? Yet you looked on me with such desire, such faith... How could I not try to be worthy of that? I wished to pretend that I could have a wife such as you, that I could be strong enough to hold such a thing and not have it be crushed. Please..."

The idea that he was trying to be worthy of _me_ knocks me flat. That someone would see me that way... He loved me _because_ of who I am, not _in spite_ of it. I know that's how it's supposed to go, but I never thought it would happen to me. I'm so used to thinking of myself as the one who has to constantly strive to measure up. "It's all so broken," I say, defeated, "And there is something within me that is, as well, and refuses to heal. The part that cuts me every time I think of you, even for an instant. These- _visions_, just... invade my mind-"

"Sometimes I smell vanilla. It is maddening," he says, looking up again, trapping me again. Vanilla. Not rosemary, _vanilla_. That's _me_. Not her. Oh gods. We stare at each other as the silence stretches on. He couldn't trust me to bear this with him, and I did that to us.

"I do not know how much longer I can stay," he says hoarsely, and I tense.

It's a runaway train now. I can't have him. I have nothing to offer, nothing he needs, nothing he can accept. We have to let go of us. We have to. "So... I guess we... better... try," I whisper, the dread piling into my stomach.

There is another moment, then he asks, "What do you propose we do?" His voice is barren as the desert.

"I... have no idea. All I know is that it has to be undone the same way it was done: in person."

"The same way it was done?" he asks pointedly, and I pause, feeling myself turn red.

"Oh no." I bow my head, covering my face.

"You dislike this idea," he says flatly, but I can hear the note of despair behind it.

"I'll only have to let go again," I say, my voice breaking as I try to keep my cool. "Please..." I'm not sure if I'm pleading with him to touch me, or not to. Maybe both. There has to be another way.

I don't realise how close he's got until his voice comes from right in front of me. "I cannot stand you crying with fear of me, _cara_," he whispers hoarsely, and then I feel it, the heat of his fingertips on my shoulder, trailing down my arm, leaving a wake of goosebumps, even through my tunic. The ache, the terrible knot of agony that has been slowly hardening within my breast over the last year begins to ease, as though it was waiting only for this, his touch, to release it. I take a deep breath, trying to hold on to my resolve, but it's crumbling away, slipping through my fingers.

When I was angry and righteous, it was another thing, but now I find that we are both just people who tried to love each other when it was no good for anyone, who made frighteningly painful decisions to try to save each other. We're just people, with flaws and fears, desires and ideals.

Slowly, I drop my hands and open my eyes, lifting my head to meet his gaze, and the strength of my desire hits me hard, forcing me to empty my lungs all at once. This is not the Crow I last saw, standing in the room we once shared. This is my Zev, the vulnerable and lost man I first met on the ship. "Zev..." his name is out of my mouth before I can call it back. "I love you," I confess helplessly, my mouth practically moving of its own accord. I swallow and try to hold onto my heart. "I tried to stop, I did, but I can't, I just can't... and you- you're gone-" I choke, breaking down entirely.

In the next moment, his arms wrap me up tightly, and I tense, flailing and crying out at the agony of it, the wall I built between him and my heart overwhelmed and shattered apart at the feel of him against me all at once. I cannot help but cling to him tightly, face nestled into his neck, that curve I remember so well, the one that always seemed like it was made specifically for me to lay my head, oh gods, the way we fit together. I sob again, choking on all of it, because I never want to leave this moment, now that I have him in my arms again, and I also know that I'll have no choice, that every moment ends.

And yet my body, it sags in relief, my trembling ceasing, that knot deep within my breast unwinding at last with a tired ache, as though it could be possible for all to be right with the world, now that I'm where I truly belong. As his hand slides into my hair, I feel a gentle scrape across my scalp, and realise he's still got his wedding ring on. He never took it off. Oh gods.

My life suddenly feels like trying to build a house of cards in a stiff wind.

"Lily," he whispers, cheek pressed to my forehead, and the depth of agony expressed in that one word takes my breath away. Every burning moment, every shard of glass, burned us both, cut us both, in equal measure. "I do not know if I can do this thing that you ask," he says, and I can tell how the admission costs him.

"Why?" I whimper, closing my mouth immediately and squeezing my eyes shut, because I really don't want to know the answer.

We have to break it. We have to.

"Because I believe I would have to truly desire to be quit of you, and that is one thing I have never been able to bring myself to do."

I sob, unable to respond, because I haven't ever been able to say I don't want him, either. It's always been 'can't have'. And despite the fact that he is with me here, right now, I still can't. Even though I can feel the strength in his arms, the curve of his hip and the pulse in his throat, and oh gods, he still smells like himself... "Oh gods, oh gods, no, no we can't, let go, let go," I babble, suddenly frantic. "I can't be this close- things that I can't have anymore- We can't be doing this- I can't- I can't-"

I scramble sideways, fetching up against the side of the bed, bowing my head, the trembling returning, and my stomach flips in protest of my sudden denial. I try so hard to catch my breath, but it just keeps bottling up, choking me. I'm beginning to have a panic attack. I want him, so much I can taste it, I can feel the way his calluses glide along my skin, I know exactly what he does with his tongue when he bends his head to my breast-

_Stop it, stop it!_

I shudder with the force of the sobs that wrack me, though I try to keep it out of my voice. I don't know why I bother, but I try, and it comes out husky and raw. "My desires are so simple," I say. "Why does it have to be so hard?"

"Because sometimes that which is most worth having must be fought for, must be earned," he murmurs. Then, after a moment, "_Cara_," almost a whisper.

I cannot help it: I look up. It's my name, from his lips, and I simply respond. His eyes, oh gods, his eyes, all that I have ever seen there and more, the love, the truth, the pain of this separation, his desire for me, so strong, echoing my own. All of it, echoing me. We feel the same things. The despair, the agony of loss, the raw need held in check only by fraying threads. Crumbling defences. Failing self-control. Something is about to give, and it might be me.

He is still there, on his knees, arms hanging loosely at his sides, so lost. So very, very lost. As broken as I am.

This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong... even the 'us' part, because I'm with Alistair now.

Oh gods.

"I can't, I can't. It'd be faithless, completely faithless, I can't do that to him, no, no please... I'm not that kind of girl..."

"Faithless?" he asks, a slight edge to his voice I'm not sure of the reason for. "Have you made to him a promise?"

I sit there staring at him, quivering, then shake my head slowly. "No."

He shifts, coming nearer, one knee at a time. "I do recall many such that you made to me, however," he murmurs, now right next to me, looking down at me. "'For as long as we both shall live', you said. Hmm... shall I quote you the others, _cara_?" he asks, and I take a shaking breath. "'In joy and sorrow', you said; 'honor and obey', you said. 'To have and to hold', you said. And to you, I said 'without reservation'. These promises were never released. They still hold me. I have been your man, all this time, _moglie mia_. 'Give them to someone you believe in,' you said, and so I did. I put them in the bottom of the pouch, with a letter that explained all, despite my fear that it would only reverse what I had done. It was mere days after I had asked you to keep no secrets from me. A liar I can be, but a hypocrite, no. That I could not abide." Slowly, he reaches for my hand, wraps his fingers around mine, and pulls it toward him. He lifts it to his mouth, and I watch with wide eyes, falling into his gold as he deliberately holds my gaze while he presses his lips to the centre of my palm.

"You are my wife," he murmurs, lips brushing against my skin. "Whether you have me in your bed or not, whether I am present with you or not, until such a time as you can release that from your heart. For as long as the connection still exists between us, there can be no doubt." Closing his eyes, he presses my palm to his cheek, my fingers curling over his cheekbone and brushing the edge of his hair. I had forgotten the texture of his skin, his hair, just slightly different from a human, but noticeable, and the way his hand fits against mine, broad-palmed and long-fingered.

"But I'm with Alistair," I whisper, my voice squeaking around the edges. I am losing my resolve. Oh gods. "I can't be- No, no it's all wrong. We have to-"

_Let go of me!_

Don't stop, oh gods, don't stop!

"You have made him no oaths, _cara_. Does he know you are with me?" he asks, his voice a low purr, and I nod. "You are not breaking faith with anyone, then. He knows where you are, and I have been content for you to stay with him, because you have been content to be there." His lips graze the inside of my wrist, and my breath catches. "I wish you to have as many of the things you desire as I am able to give you, _amora_. It seemed to me that I could give you many, while only sacrificing one, but that one thing has been the most precious of them all. Now both the time and the opportunity are dearly bought, but I am with you. I am here. _Che cosa desideri, mia bella_ Lily?"

He's forgotten to speak Common again, and I know what that means for his state of mind.

What do I desire? What do I desire?

My voice breaks with the force of my confession. _"Ti. Sempre, essere con ti, ma deve rompere, o vogliono. Noi debba finiamo ora, perché sono il suo, e ti faceva quell'a noi. Questo uno momento deve essere abbastanza." You. Always, to be with you, but it has to break, or I will. We have to end now, because I'm his, and you did that to us. This one moment will have to be enough._

"Solo uno? Nessuno più?" he asks, and I can hear the catch in his breath as it washes across the inside of my arm, as he hovers close enough for me to smell the spice and musk that is him. _Just the one? No more?_ I shake my head, but I can't speak, and he kisses my arm again, fingers trailing across my tunic and up over my elbow. _"E questo uno? Posso avere questo uno?"_ he murmurs, brushing my hair over my shoulder. _And this one? Can I have this one?_ I shiver, my head tilting to the side automatically.

_Fickle!_

No. Complicated.

My hand slides into his hair, following him as he bends closer, as he kisses the slope of my shoulder where it disappears into my tunic. _"E questo uno, moglie mia?"_ is whispered against my skin, and I cannot for the life of me remember how to push him away. _"E questo uno...? E questo uno...?"_ he whispers as his kisses travel higher along the side of my neck. _And this one...? And this one...?_ Oh gods. His lips press to the spot behind my ear that always makes me moan, and I suddenly arch toward him, my fingers flexing in his hair.

He's my husband.

_It has to break!_

Oh, but I want him. I always have. _"Sì!"_ I gasp, _"Tutti. Fino alla alba, tutti. Finché crollare, rompere." Yes. All of them. Until the dawn, all of them. Until I break, or it does._

Aphrodite, hold my wretched heart safely in your hands... don't let it shatter again, please. Guard us all. Clever-fingered Lachesis, please pull our threads apart, please, please-

My cheek presses to his as my head turns, skin sliding against mine, the angle of his cheekbone crossing my own. I can feel the corner of his mouth at the point of my jaw, trailing along the line of it, slowly heading for my lips as I tremble, tense in the moment of uncertain anticipation. His lips are gentle and soft as silk as they brush mine; he tilts his head, his tongue running over my lower lip, and I am lost. My last defence shatters with such force it should have been audible. With a whimper, I crush myself against his armour, winding my arms around his neck, and kiss him back passionately.

He groans, an arm wrapping around my waist pulling me closer as his other hand slides down my thigh to hook under my knee, drawing me into his lap. His breath comes heavily, shaking with the kind of tremble that tells me he's holding himself back, the way he always seemed to be on fine vibrate when we were on the ship. His hand changes direction, going back up my leg and under my tunic, fingers against my bare skin, and I moan, breaking the kiss as my head tips back, eyes sinking closed.

His breath washes across my throat, lips pressing to the hollow of my collarbone and I gasp, arching into him as my hand slides over his shoulder. I suddenly feel an intense hatred for his armour, as it prevents me from feeling the flex of his shoulders, his arms, his thighs, oh gods, his stomach; I can't get close enough fast enough, and loose a wail of frustration as my fingers fumble with the buckles. I can't even remember how it goes.

He doesn't help me. His lips travel over my skin as I whimper and writhe in his arms, each strap coming free a small triumph of concentration and will. His belt loosens - at last! - releasing the bottom of his plates, followed quickly by the harness that holds his blades to his back, and they clatter to the floor behind him. Completely unconcerned, he has pursued unlacing my tunic with a single-minded focus, and pulled the neckline aside, the fabric falling from my shoulder just ahead of his kiss, and I lick my lips, losing my breath as they trail lower, onto my chest and toward my breast.

_Let go, let go of this. This will never happen again; let go of it. This love does us no good._

My head lolls back, eyes closed as my heartbeat picks up, and I know I've only got moments before I lose my mind completely. I have to focus. I have to keep my head. My fingers fumble at the straps of his brassard plates, finally releasing the buckles that attach them to his arms and the front plate, thinking this will get me where I need to go, but I've forgotten the ones that hold front and back together, over his shoulders and under his arms.

I whimper softly as a gentle tug exposes my right breast, the neckline of my shirt falling down to my elbow, the ribbon that held it together just completely missing. His hand comes up behind my shoulder, and in the next moment, the heat and wet of his tongue rasps against my nipple, pulling a cry from my lips. The buckle over his right shoulder pops loose, but the fingers of my right hand simply twitch ineffectually against the strangely textured leather on the other side as he sucks at my breast with a soft sound of desperate desire. I heard it frequently, before that first landfall, but never since. Oh gods, the _honesty_ of that simple sigh.

_Let go, my love, let go. No more._

I make some kind of small strangled sound, my left hand curling into the fabric of the gambeson beneath his armour, but I can't really get any further than that for a moment, until he releases my breast, his kisses continuing to travel across my chest. I try to catch my breath, but it's just not going to happen. My hand trembles as I tug on the buckle over his left shoulder, and it finally pops open as his other hand comes up behind me, tugging the neck of my tunic down further, baring my other breast. Impatiently, I yank my arms out of the sleeves, leaving me bare to the waist, my shirt puddled at my hips. Two more buckles. I whimper as his mouth nears my other nipple, fumbling with the straps, but I only get the top one, under his arm, before he latches onto me, making me cry out again. His fingers flex behind my shoulder, and there's that soft sigh again, the sound that tells me he's holding so tightly to his self-control.

The last buckle finally gives way, and he raises his arm, letting the breastplate go, dragged by the weight of his falling backplate, everything falling with it, including his belt, the skirting parting and landing on the floor beside his hips. This is the moment where he decides to stand, taking me by surprise as I am carried upward by steel bands wrapped around my waist and behind my back. Once he's got me on my feet, he reclaims my mouth, and I remember what it feels like to kiss someone I don't have to strain to reach. His kiss, oh gods, his kiss, no one kisses like he does; I could never get enough. His hands smooth down over my hips, brushing the shirt out of the way, and it falls to the floor, puddling around my feet as I fumble with the laces on his gambeson.

They're too tangled. I give up in favour of lifting my foot behind me, pressing my heel to my bottom so I can get to the knot on my laces, one arm wrapped around Zev's shoulders for balance. He holds me tightly, pressing closer as I kick them off, instantly shorter than him by a couple of inches. I go back for the laces on his armour padding, but he's already done it, so I go for the hem instead, pulling it slowly upward.

He lets go of me, stepping back and raising his arms, bending so that I can get it off over his head, and when he straightens, I drop it in favour of covering my mouth with both hands. There is a dark purplish-red, swollen line, an angry scar, barely healed, right beneath his heart, right where one would need to slip the knife, to stop it. It looks like a surgery scar, only without the little dots around the outside where the stitches would have been. Anders managed to heal him just enough to let him - us - live. Just barely enough.

That curious coldness in my heart... that was the feeling of a blade in it.

He looks so lost, so vulnerable, standing there like this, and I reach out tentatively, my palm covering it protectively as I meet his eyes again. The heavy sadness there breaks my heart, what's left of it, and I bite my lip, the urgency suddenly gone from me in the moment of understanding what nearly cost us our lives. And now who is the callous one, to say it would only happen again, and it does not matter? It does. He reaches up brushing the tear off my cheek with his thumb, cupping my face in his hand, looking like he might say something, but then just shakes his head, wrapping his arm around my waist again and pulling me into his arms.

So fragile, our lives, no matter how strong he is, no matter how fast, still, he is only flesh and blood, and he is fallible.

And there is no one at his side, when there should be, when it should be _me_, and that's my fault.

"_Mi dispiace_, Zev," I say, my voice breaking. _I'm so sorry._

I can't stop the flood of tears, so much heartache and regret just pouring out of my eyes as I lean in and press my lips to his, feeling his heart beat steadily beneath my hand.

I pop the ties on his breeches as he steps out of his boots, his hands sliding around my waist to pull free the buttons on mine. We take each other by the hips, both of our pants falling at the same time, and I feel the hard length of him pressed naked to my pubic bone, curving against my belly, drawing a gasp from me.

"_Cara_," he whispers hoarsely, head tipping to the side, and he looks like he's almost in pain, eyes squeezed tightly closed, nearly grimacing as he bends his head to my shoulder. His arms wrap tightly around me as he nuzzles his face in my neck, and my breath catches as I try not to be overwhelmed by the fact that there are no barriers between us, but there's so much skin my head is spinning. I'm drowning in his scent, his breath, the flex of his muscles under my hands, the press of him against me and the feel of his hands sliding up my back.

All this time, while I have lived and laughed and loved, shamelessly, he has been alone in a sea of smiles hiding sharks' teeth. I have not been there for him. There has been no one for him to return to, no safe haven, no softness, no solace, because I cannot stand beside him.

And then last night.

And now this.

I bring nothing but heartache. I'm no good for him.

"Zev..." I whisper his name again and it breaks me. There is no stopping the rain now, and I scatter my storm all over his shoulder as he slips his hand between my thighs.

I'm so selfish.

I go up on my toes when his finger slides between my soaking lips, moaning softly as he hums with approval and desire. My knees give way when that finger curls into me, stars bursting in my eyes as I gasp, helplessly bucking against his hand, but he catches me, holding me close to his chest.

How could I have forgotten what his touch does to me?

_I want you, oh gods, I love you so much-_

No! Let go of it, let go, let go-

He turns with me, mouth devouring the line of my neck as I tilt my head to the side, clinging tightly. My back hits the wall, and I realise he doesn't mean to use the bed at all as he adds a second finger within me.

This makes it both better and worse. Can't be too intimate, no... Torrid and dirty, when it shouldn't be. Everything's wrong, it's all wrong, it's all so broken...

I can't gather enough air to make a sound before his mouth closes on mine, effectively silencing me. His free hand slides down my thigh, pulling upward to hook my knee over his hip, and I buck forward, kissing him ardently, the flex of my calf pulling him closer. He growls as I soak his palm, so close to the edge that my every breath comes with a whimper, the heel of his hand striking me just exactly right, oh, the press of his fingers on that perfect spot within me making me shudder.

_Please break, please break, I can't be doing this, I can't be feeling like this anymore, please, please let go..._

I love you...

He pulls away a bit, breaking the kiss, ignoring my strident whimper of protest, leaving me teetering back from the edge of release as he presses me flat to the wall, pinning me with his chest. His eyes, oh gods, the agony, the desire, the fear, the sheer _need_... mirroring me, still. I wrap my other leg around his waist, the inside of my thigh sliding up over his hip as he kisses me breathless enough that I cannot make a sound as he enters me, holding me immobile so he can take his sweet time with it. My stomach muscles shake, fingers and toes curling as my hands mindlessly wander the familiar landscape of his shoulders, his neck, sliding into his hair and pulling at it. His breath catches, shuddering in his chest, and I gasp for air as I become aware that the small, rhythmic humming sounds are actually coming from _him_.

Oh gods, I can hear him.

His tongue invades my mouth, swallowing all my cries as he pins me to the wall again and again, the wood smooth and warm against my back as I writhe in his arms. It is he who finally breaks the kiss with a snarl as he presses his face into the curve of my neck, breathing me in as my head turns, the fires rising in me burning so hot I can feel it in my bones. His hand curves over my jaw, wrapping firmly over my mouth as I sob brokenly, my legs locked around his waist and fingers flexing in his hair. I tense, still trying to buck against him, but the wave of euphoria is flooding through me, making me lose my grip on him, on the rhythm, on my own voice.

_Please break, please break, please break-_

Don't let go-

Alistair!

Please break, oh gods, please-

I take a deep, shuddering breath, and then the sound of him purring softly in my ear sends me straight over the edge with a low, helpless moan.

He groans, tensing and stilling, trying to ride through it without being dragged along; I can hear it in the way his breath comes quick and shallow, but I can't have that, it has to be right together, just like the first time.

_Come on, come on-_

I roll my hips, my rhythm gone more sinuous, less urgent, but it pulls an honest-to-gods actual moan from his lips before he moves his hand to crush his mouth to mine, suddenly owning me with authority, and I cry out in surprise, in ecstasy, clinging as tightly as my shaking limbs allow. He shudders in my arms, thickening within me just moments before I hear that moan again, muffled as it is by my own mouth. I feel him straining, his stomach quivering, and then the heavy pulse that makes me moan softly as he slowly strokes through his own release, both of us struggling for air, neither of us able to maintain any semblance of quiet.

_Break, break, break-_

It happens again, that bass string vibrating between us, the sense of shivering dust that rises from my skin as our heartbeats twine, and I can't make it stop. It's just as pure and right as it was that first time, and I can't force myself to feel any other way about it, no matter how I know the link must break. It exists for just a fraction of a second, and then slips through my fingers.

He staggers backward, carrying me with him, and sits heavily upon the bed, leaning back so his shoulders hit the wall, still kissing me as his hands roam over my suddenly over-sensitive skin, making me shiver. My shivering causes me to move above him, and he groans, seizing my hips in both hands and rolling beneath me.

I don't want this to be over. I don't want to let go of him.

I have to.

_One more try, come on, break-_

I shudder, crying out softly, and pick up his rhythm, but it can't last, as I spiral upward again very quickly, burying my face in his neck and sobbing with the waves of fire that wash over me as he brings me once more.

That's it. That's all I can take. I sag, exhausted, curling against him, and he wraps his arms around me as a breeze off the ocean dries the sweat from my back. My hand rests over his heart again as I burst into silent tears, knowing that this has been completely futile, and all I've accomplished is to be unfaithful, no matter what Zev might think about it.

His arms tighten around me as I choke, but there are no words of comfort he can offer, no matter how or if he might wish to. His hand slides into my hair as he kisses my forehead fiercely, and I can feel the rictus of pain distorting his mouth as he clutches me tightly to his chest before he tucks my head under his chin.

"I cannot stay with you, _amora_," he whispers, and though I cling more tightly, I nod. I know.

"I missed you, for so long." I manage to force the words out around the stone in my throat and he takes a deep, shaking breath.

"I know," he says, his voice low and husky, and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, taking a breath of my own. "I left behind my life when I tore myself from your hands, _cara_. The Crows are so hollow. I find I cannot now go back to the way I used to be, to take these things easily, to take my pleasures where I find them and not look back. Tell me it is enough, that I have done enough. Tell me that you have been happy, Lily, because one of us has to be. Please-"

I feel his throat working as he suddenly loses his words completely, and though my cursed eyes cannot seem to stop their leaking, I nod. "Yes..." And look what I've done in the name of trying to keep it.

_I love you, I love you, I'm so sorry-_

Faithless!

I dissolve into sobbing, and as he holds me I become aware that my forehead is just as wet as my cheeks.

Gravity and the uncomfortableness of the rough pallet combine with our awkward position to eventually force us apart, and I sit up at last, climbing off of him carefully. I cannot look up. I take the bucket from the counter and tie the rope around it, then toss it out the window, letting the rope play out between my hands until it sinks beneath the water before hauling it back up. I stand on the trap door, where the boards have slight gaps between them, and wash up quickly with the cold salt water. It's not great, but it works.

When I turn around, he is standing there in his breeches, holding the gambeson in his hand, staring at it dully. "You have to leave _now_?" I ask, hating the quaver in my voice. Slowly, his eyes drag upward to finally meet mine, and it's almost like he flinches. "We've got three days."

"Every moment is more danger. You sent the message through Ferrilin, _cara_," he says, and he looks so desolate. "Thraivenen carried it to Ignacio for his mother's sake, but alas, who else do you suppose could get close enough to me to do such a thing in the first place?" he asks, gesturing to the scar on his chest, and my eyes widen.

"_Ferrilin_?" I ask, shocked, and he smirks, but it's a sad thing, as he shakes his head.

"No, _cara_, my... son. You have seen him; there is no mistaking his parentage. When he discovered the truth of matters, he was... not pleased. And now he knows that I yet live. I did not know he had become a Crow." He looks at his hands, and I rub the aching point between my brows.

"I did. He was a friend of Enzo's."

He blinks. "You did? Why did you not say?" This is not reproach, merely curiosity, and I shrug, my smile brittle.

"Because the next time I saw you, you accused me of cheating on you and left me to barf poison out Leliana's window for three hours."

We stand there for a moment, just staring at each other, and he surprises me by being the first to look away. Slowly, he gathers himself together, shrugging back into his armour padding and tugging on his boots. I get dressed quickly, running my fingers through my hair as I watch him put on his armour.

He looks up again as he cinches down his belt, and I swallow. "What now?" I ask, knowing the answer already. "That's it?"

"We failed to break it," he says slowly, and I nod. He takes a deep breath, looking at his hands, then back at me. "I do not think it likely we ever will succeed... or do you disagree?" I shake my head, the tears starting again.

"I have no idea. I'm not sure I have it in me to keep trying, but I don't see another way." I can't look away from him, trapped in his eyes, my honey gold, my sunlight, oh gods.

_Break, break, why won't you just break?_

He has to swallow twice before he can speak again. "I- I cannot-" I cover my mouth with my hand, shaking my head.

"No, no don't say it, don't say it," I beg, and he grimaces.

He can't let go. And, even though I tried... neither can I, because I still love him.

Two long, quick strides bring him back to me, and he seizes my face in his hands, kissing me passionately, thoroughly, his fingers running through my hair and down my back. I whimper, melting into it, almost against my will, but then he is stepping back, and he doesn't look at me again as he goes to the door. He pauses there, shoulders hunching as he flips the lock, hand on the latch. His free hand rests against the door frame, fingers flexing and scratching the wood. "_Suledin, vir bor'assan_," I whisper, and, "_Ma'arlath..._" my voice full of the tears that tumble down my cheeks unchecked. _Endure, and bend, but never break. I love you._ Things Mahariel said to him, yes, but those were my words.

_"So io, moglie mia. Sempre sarò tuo uomo, senza reserve. Questo, giuro."_ He pauses, then adds, "Go home, _cara_."

And then he is gone without another word, the door swinging shut behind him. I rush over to it, put my hand to where his was just a moment ago, finding it still warm, and rest my head against the wood of the door, giving into the despair of this last, most final loss.

_I know, my wife. I will always be your man, without reservation. This, I swear._

My happiness, at the price of his, at the price of what I've done for a tie that won't break because we can't let go.

Too steep a price, too much.

And nothing to be done about it.

Not a gods-damned thing.


	29. Phoenix Rising

"Zev," I whisper. "What have you done to us?"

"Do you still not understand?"

"No," I say, my voice tight with the strain of this lie, and his arm slips off the back of the couch to wrap around me. I don't want to understand. I lay my head on his shoulder, watching our little Arianna bang a small cowbell on the floor and squeal with delight at the sound it makes. "I would never leave you. I couldn't. Even there, you're my reason for breathing." He squeezes my arm gently and kisses the top of my head as I make little damp circles on the sleeve of his henley.

"You did not see, when you wrote that scene with Alistair, the things that you said, but I did. So telling," he chides gently, and I blush. "Yet how could I continue, how could I force your hand like that, hm?" He sighs, slipping his fingers between mine. "What we have can only exist in a world without the Crows. Do you not believe that they would crush all the light from you? How was I to protect that in a den of killers? You explain that to me, _cara_, because I cannot see it. And to think of a _child_? _Our_ child? Look at her, _moglie mia_, and tell me that you could take her in there. Look me in the eyes and tell me we could protect her, even with both of us to fight for her." He leans back, looking down at me, but I just shake my head, shrugging with one shoulder.

"Surely other Crows had families," I try, but he remains impassive.

"Of course; the noble families all had many children. It was not uncommon for a woman to bear perhaps seven or eight sons and daughters. The women took it as a point of pride if they could surpass six children without undue stress to their health. One or two, if they were fortunate, might even live long enough to be married. Those with the most influence, perhaps three. But of course, alliances and enemies are made in such ways, titles traded and fortunes made or lost."

He takes a deep breath, then shakes his head slightly. "Tell me, how would you feel, seeing four out of six children into the flames? Yours. Ours. Seen as possible sacrificial pawns by all but us. Could you look at having many children as a way of giving yourself merely a better chance that you wouldn't be left entirely childless?

"You barely touched the edge of it and came away scarred, written by your own hand. And you, my brave Lily, you would fight on, regardless. You would tell yourself you could handle it because you had to, and you would tear yourself apart from the inside. You would tell yourself it was your failure to thrive, and look: so you have," he says, gesturing to the open laptop on the table beside me.

"But it _is_ a weakness. Why would it be wrong for me to feel that way?"

He snorts. "Because you are calling 'weakness' what is just good sense and healthy self-preservation instinct. How many of the women you know do you suppose would be well-equipped to jump into such a situation, hm? Bethany? Captain Lydia? Sofia? You are not a soldier, not raised to a life of it, nor trained for the way of it. You can swing a dagger or a sword in the training yard all you wish, but to take that out into the killing field is another matter entirely, yes? You even know so, for you say as much after 'That Night', as you call it, but you shy from it, refuse to believe."

I look at our Chickpea and feel sick. Not for the first time, I wonder if I'm spinning fiction or recording a history. Oh, other me, I'm sorry. This is revealing sides of him that neither of us wanted to see.

"Not only that, but consider how many would have to fall by my hand in order for all the Crows left standing to fear me enough that they submit, swearing to put me at the head of the table leading all of Antiva. Consider medieval and renaissance politics. What would a man do, when he usurped a throne, with the former ruling family? For have no doubt: that is exactly what I have done. And what would happen to him, as long as even one member of that family still drew breath?" I stare at him, wide-eyed, and his honeyed amber, usually so warm, is flat and hard as gold.

"Even the childrens," he says evenly, deliberately, then pauses, pinning me to the spot and sending a chill up my spine. I don't see the Crow side of him very often, and it _always_ freaks me out. He's right; he would have to be ruthless and cold as steel. And after a year and a half, Thedas-me brings him there and does this to him, perhaps the only thing left of him that was still soft: me. Us. "Could you watch me do that, _cara_?" he asks, softly. "Would you yet stand by my side? And if you did, what would you become? What would become of _you_?"

He studies me for a moment while I stare at him in silence, unable to refute it, and then he throws one more brick at me. "You are my wife, and you would, indeed, be a queen. Could you callously order the death of another? You could not do it when it was your own life - our lives - in danger, or have you forgotten the scene in the alley, with the Warden patrol?" I know he sees that I remember, and he nods. "Just so. I did warn you: the Crows, they are not so forgiving of amateurs."

I nod reluctantly. "You're right. But so am I: if I were to have gone there, I wouldn't be strong enough to hold you, and... knowing who we are together? That's a crime, and a failure."

"Hmm... Never mind that the weakness is equally upon my own shoulders? For neither could I keep you safe."

"I should have been able to keep _myself_ safe, and so I would lose the love of my life for not being strong enough to deserve it," I counter.

He regards me seriously. "Even there, what happens between us when we do this..." Leaning in, he kisses me softly, this echo, the way of our first kiss, gentle and questing. The one that always makes my heart soar. After a moment, he draws back; I blink, forever slow to come out of it, and see that look in his eyes, too. "...never changes. There is a reason the link cannot be broken. But there would only be two roads, if I let you follow me into the darkness: I would be forced to watch you slowly either come to think of me as a monster and fear me, or weather away to a cynical and jaded shadow of yourself, becoming hard as stone. That is, if you survived, were not taken and used against me somehow. Something else I told you: the Crows do not encourage personal attachments."

"Renata and Lothrein-" I begin, but he just shakes his head.

"Both Crows. There was no true love there, only possessiveness and mutual agreement. Perhaps a certain amount of passion, for she was a very jealous woman, but she asked you if you had designs on her husband because she wished to know what game you played at, not to keep you from his bed. Each would kill the other without a second thought, if it suited their purpose." I look down at Chickpea and a tear falls off my eyelashes. "Ahhh... _Cara_," he says, "You called me your sunlight, but look at what life I come from. What do you suppose you do for me, hmm?" I blink, meeting his gaze again, and he cups my cheek, brushing the errant tear away with his thumb. "There. Just so. Crows do not cry, not like this. You still have a heart to break."

"You have a heart; I've seen you cry," I protest, and his eyes, oh, his eyes, the weight of them when he looks at me.

"Only because you gave me yours." He pauses, then shakes his head just a fraction. "But I would lose you to Alistair."

I swallow. "I'd lose _you_ to the Crows."

After a moment, he picks up the laptop and puts it in my hands. "Say on, Lily _mia_. We are still alive, yes? What is next? There are questions left unanswered."

"So there are," I agree softly.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

I sit in the chair by the window, staring at the night sky, watching it slowly turn from inky black to indigo, bleeding into grey. Not until it is light enough to show the ripples on the water do I realise, if I had only been patient, the Crows would still believe him dead, and we could have been free.

And right on the heels of that thought, so quick they overlap: _Oh, so you'd just ditch Alistair._

No. I _did_ make him a promise. I didn't have to use the words of a verbal contract to have it be understood between us. He warned me, if I let him hold me, he wouldn't want to let go, and I asked him not to. I have asked him many times not to.

For the first time, to think of _Alistair_ burns me, and that is a searing brand that takes my breath away.

Oh gods, no, what have I done?

_Faithless._

I stand, pick up my bag, and head for the door. Ponka wiggles out from under the bed, and I wait for him to be able to stand next to me before I open it to head back home.

Home.

The Warden base.

My stomach begins to twist up in knots before I even get to the gate.

The night before last, Anders was in the midst of his poisoning, but he was trying to tell me something, something so vital that he struggled through his haze of delirium to speak. Chains bind heavy loads, logic, chains, people, events... and then he quoted my grandmother. Did... did he see inside our heads? Oh gods, that's frightening. No wonder he ended up having an aneurysm.

I need to see the letter, and get the jewellery back, and then put it away someplace and never look at it again.

There is a new recruit on the door, must have arrived just yesterday, and he doesn't know me. I have a hassle trying to get in until one of the Warden patrols coming in for breakfast strolls up, and the incident leaves me shaken.

It could be that easy, to have it all just crumble like a puff of dust. Only one day away, and I already have trouble getting back into my home.

I head back to my room to ditch my bag and gather some clean clothes. Looking down at my dog, I smile and scratch his head. "You're such a good boy. Go find something to eat and a place to relax, okay? You've done a good job." He barks happily, wiggling his tail-bump, and trots off, head high. I can't help but smile; he's so easy to please. After spending so long in the baths that I turn into a raisin, I head back to my room and flop down on the bed, just laying there, staring at the canopy.

_Zev_...

No. Shut _up_.

That part of my life is over, and there's no going back. I may never see him again, no matter how unfair it is. The Crows ate him, but not how I thought, and I tipped his hand to them without meaning to when I asked Ferrilin to take a message to Zev for me. I didn't even think about it, the idea that the Crows might not know he was still alive.

I just selfishly tried to contact him, made him come out of hiding.

And it didn't even work.

_It never would have worked._

I had to try.

I can't stay here forever. I have to get up, I have to move. I need to find something to do, so I can stop brooding, so I can try to build up that wall again, so I can try to pick up my life again.

Last night doesn't change anything about what I've been doing for the last eighteen months. It can't. That's the whole point of all this sacrifice, isn't it?

I don't deserve this.

_Be careful what you wish for._

I force myself to get up and run a brush through my hair, even though I really couldn't care less. I have to try and do all the normal things I would do every day. That means I need to eat, because I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon. It doesn't matter if I'm not hungry. In fact, that's probably a bad sign, considering it's been almost a whole day. I pick up my bag by habit; there's a bowl in the bottom that needs to go back to the hall anyway.

The hall is mostly deserted by now, just a few off-duty guys still munching on the tag ends of their meals over cribbage or cards. I slip out the side door with my plate, not even really looking around much, and find a place to be, somewhere out of the way in a corner of the courtyard. I sit on the floor, my back against a wall, and set my plate in my lap, looking down at it. None of it looks like food. I don't want to eat. I pick up a strawberry and pull the hull off, taking a bite, and it tastes like nothing.

I eat it anyway, because I should, but I haven't got much further than that when Leliana finds me. My first clue that she's near is the rustle of fabric that accompanies her dropping to the stone to sit beside me. I force myself to eat a piece of broccoli, then continue to stare at my plate.

At last, she says, "You don't look happy."

I sigh. "I'm not."

"You weren't gone very long. Did it go badly?" she asks, and I pause, because I really don't have a good answer for that at first.

"Uh... Well..." I shrug awkwardly. "Yes and no. It... didn't work."

"You could not break the connection?" she asks, and I shake my head.

"I'd have to hate him, I think, and... I just... I can't," I say, my voice breaking and ending on a whisper.

Lels wraps an arm around my waist, and I lean into her. "Hate? Really?"

I nod, feeling tears burning behind my eyes, and swallow thickly. "It's... We're tied because of love, and... the opposite of love is hate. So... I think we'd have to hate each other to break it."

She pauses, then shakes her head. "No, I don't think so. Love is a very strong emotion, and so is hate. The opposite of both is apathy."

Could I ever look on him and feel nothing at all? No.

I shake my head ruefully. "Ah, well. It doesn't really matter, because there's no way I could bring myself to do either one."

"I'm so sorry, sweetling. It can't have been easy," she says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Was he cruel?" she asks softly, and my mouth twists.

"Not intentionally. The entire situation has been cruel to both of us."

"Hmh. I don't know about that," she retorts. "He was terribly unkind to you, that last day he was here."

I shake my head, dangerously close to crying, and I can't have that. I swallow hard a couple of times and sit up, looking down at my plate. Grabbing a small piece of chicken, I stuff it in my mouth to buy myself a little bit of time before I have to answer. "I know. But he had his reasons, and now that I know what they were... I... I can't be mad at him. It just hurts now." I glance up at her as the silence stretches on, and she is staring at me, shocked. I know, this is an abrupt about-face from the position I have held - and often ranted about - for the last eighteen months. I offer her a weak smile, and shrug. "Once I've found Anders, I'll come see you and explain... but I think I should talk to Alistair first."

My stomach clenches, and I find that I have lost my appetite entirely. Oh gods. I split my roll in half and stuff all the chicken in it, then wrap up my food in the napkin, tying the corners together. Leliana gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Well, you know where to find me, though I'll be out for a time, tonight. If I don't see you before I go, I'll come find you after I return." I nod, and she kisses me on the cheek before she gets up and saunters off.

I drop my breakfast into the little box in my satchel that I keep for just that purpose, sliding the lid closed. I may not be hungry now, but I will be later, and I can't bring myself to waste food like that. It'll keep; the chicken was pretty well-spiced. I'm stalling.

Hauling myself to my feet, I weave a little, and put my hand out to brace myself on the wall. I'm running out of energy; it's going on thirty hours now since I slept. Sighing heavily, I push my hair out of my face and head over to the clinic. I barely catch Anders down the hall on his way out and have to push myself into a bit of a trot to catch up.

"Anders, hey."

He turns around, surprised, and then frowns when he sees me. "Lily! I thought you were going to be gone for three days," he says, and I look at my feet for a moment, shifting uncomfortably.

"Uh... yeahhh... so did I. Things never go according to plan though, right?" I peek up at him and he shakes his head, a little mystified, a little amused.

"So what can I do for you?" he prompts, and I hesitate, because of the way he said that, but I really have to ask.

"I need the paper that was in the bottom of the silver pouch. I know what it is now, and what to do with it."

He looks at me doubtfully. "What about the compulsion on it?" he asks warily, and I shake my head.

"Wasn't a compulsion. It was connected to the chain, so of course it tugged on me, just like you said, but it can't hurt me anymore."

He studies me for another moment, no doubt taking in the bags under my eyes and my slouch. "C'mon, please? I still have to talk to Alistair about all this before I can sleep," I complain, rubbing my eye, and he finally relents.

"All right... but if it looks like it's going to grab you again, you're not getting it," he warns, and I nod.

"Fair enough." Benina beats a hasty retreat to the back room to give us privacy as we enter, and Anders reaches up to a top shelf to fetch down a small box that has old letters in it. After a moment's deliberation, he hands over the letter Zev left me warily, expecting it to cause me problems at any moment. It doesn't. It's just a piece of paper, now. Such a tiny thing, to cause so many problems. "Thank you," I murmur, glancing up at him, then tuck it in my sleeve. He presses his lips together, still not liking it, but he nods.

"Right. Well, I'm late, but it seemed like this was important." He touches my shoulder as he passes me, and I turn, following him out so Benina can resume her work.

"Thanks," I say again. "Sorry I made you late." He just nods, then turns, giving me a little wave as he heads out, leaving me standing there with the letter.

I don't want to read this.

I have to read this.

_You do realise you said that you _have_ to, right? Not that you want to?_

Shut up. I know. Doesn't make it any less true. Sometimes, yes, you _have_ to.

Perhaps for the last time, so let me have this. It's probably the last thing I'll touch that was in his hands.

There's no one around, so I tug it out of my sleeve, flip it over and am immediately stopped by the seal. The pattern from his ring. I hesitate a moment, then slide my finger under it. It unfolds like a flower, clearly hastily done from rote practice, but by someone who knows paper-folding as an art form, and has often used it in lieu of envelopes. Something else about my man- no, about Zevran, that I never knew. Gods, the flow of his hand across the page; his handwriting is beautiful, a perfect script, and with it, he damns me completely. There are two pages.

_Easier to think I never loved you!_

You think this is easy for me? That I wanted this? It's tearing me in half!

I do trust you, Alistair... completely. Utterly. I want to do the safe thing, the easy thing, and believe me, I know how easy it would be. Don't think I haven't thought about it. But in the end I could never forgive myself for being a coward.

I can't change what's already happened, but you can't tell me I didn't give you anything. I died for you. Not for the Blight, not to save Denerim, not for the dwarves, Ferelden, the Grey Wardens, or even my clan. Just you. Everything I held, all that I desired, everything I was, all my Tainted blood and every scrap of my Dalish soul. I gave it up for you. Not him.

I couldn't bear the thought of the world without you in it. It was the last thing I could offer you... The only thing I had left.

I do love you. I looked- look up to you, more than you'll ever know, maybe. I've never known what to say, how to be, what to do... You make it hard to think straight, you know that? The problem is, both of you have a hold on me, and I know I can't have it both ways. I never could.

I wish I could give you what you want, what you deserve.

I hang my head, holding the paper to my breast for a moment. I said these things, out loud, to Alistair, and didn't even hear myself. After a few deep breaths, I move the top paper aside, and there is the earring, and my wedding ring as well. I put the top paper underneath and pick them up, tuck them into my palm. Of course, there is more. The second note turns me to ash.

_You will not allow yourself to accept what you truly want and need while you are utterly consumed with blind desire._

They will never come for you now. It is the best I can do.

Sempre, tutto, ma solo per te, moglie mia. (Always, everything, but only for you, my wife.)

Emma ir abelas... ma serranas samahlen, na nehn, enansal na lath. Suledin. Numin'din. Ar era'din, dareth. Ma'uth emma vhenan'arla. Vir bor'assan, emma sa'lath. (I am filled with sorrow... thank you for the laughter, your joy, the gift of your love. Endure. No more tears. Do not dream of me, and be safe. You will always be my heart's home. Bend, but never break, my one love.)

Lord, what fools these mortals be.

After a moment where I just stand there staring down at it, not really seeing, I put the jewellery back on the paper. I carefully fold it back up the way that it was, and stick it in my back pocket, then take a couple of deep breaths. I'm so tired, my bones ache. I want to lay them down.

A small, quiet voice within me whispers of heat and strength, the smell of cedar and hazel eyes. I need him, and just when I need him most, he may decide to push me away, but I cannot lie to him, either.

Looking up, I realise that my feet have carried me to Alistair's door without conscious direction on my part, which is also a bad sign, because I only start doing that around the time I'm about to be capable of sleeping on a set of concrete stairs. No lie.

The door is closed, but there's no guard on it; my hand is filled with lead and inertia as I raise it and knock. "Come," he replies curtly, and I take another deep breath before opening the door. He doesn't look up at first, head bent over a ledger as he finishes making the entry, but when he does, my heart flips. I do love him, and I need him, desperately. I have no idea how I must look right now - probably like hell - but he's looking at me with mixed emotions, mostly concern, and I realise I'm still standing in the doorway. I take a couple of steps in and shut it behind me, then lean against it.

"Hi," I say softly, and immediately have to fight the urge to burst into tears as everything stacks up in my throat and I can't say a bloody word else. I swallow thickly, then push away from the door, moving to stand by his desk as he looks at me with deeper worry stealing across his brow. "I'm back."

Something in his eyes changes then, and he lays his quill aside, pushing back from the table. I duck out from under my satchel strap and drop it on the chair nearby, not looking away from him. "You weren't gone very long," he says cautiously, and I shake my head, swallowing hard again.

"I know. It... didn't work. We couldn't break it." I bow my head. "I'm sorry. I really tried, but there were things..." I take a deep breath, putting my hand over my mouth for a moment, and I notice it's shaking. "Do you remember the day in the training yard, before I went to that stupid Crow party? You had just come back-"

"Yes. I remember," he says, and I pause. He's gone very intense on me all of a sudden, and it makes my breath catch.

Rather than go through a long explanation, I just let Zev do it for me. "This is what was in the bottom of the pouch of silver, two days later," I say, handing it to him, then watch as he opens it and reads. His face transforms from surprise to grim and understanding resignation as he reaches about the middle of the first page, then goes desolate as he reads the second, as he finds the jewellery.

"Yeah, that's pretty much how I felt," I say softly, watching the emotions play across his face.

"So it was all fake. Do I want to know what the Elvish says?" he asks hoarsely, once he reaches the bottom, and I shrug.

"Most of it... probably not," I admit.

He stares at me for a long moment, then his face and his voice are very carefully neutral as he asks me, "So, what now?"

"Uh..." I rub my eyes, trying to convince them not to be blurry, and feel myself sway, my hip colliding with the side of the desk before I look up again. "I haven't slept since the night before last. I'm so tired," I say, running my hands through my hair to try and convince myself to stay awake a little longer. "I just want to sleep."

"Why haven't you slept?" he asks, eyeing me. I'm interrupted by a yawn as I try to reply, and cover my mouth, shaking my head.

"Because the contents of the letter weren't news to me when I opened it this morning," I say wearily. "He told me last night, before he left, and then I sat there and waited for the sun to come up so I could come back here."

There is a moment of silence while I rub my forehead, and then his voice is still carefully neutral as he asks, "And after you sleep?"

"I'll probably need to eat again; I've only had like, a strawberry, a piece of broccoli, and a bite of chicken since lunch yesterday," I tell him, leaning against the edge of his desk for balance.

He sighs softly, but I know that sound: he's frustrated. I look up at him, my brow furrowed. "And after that? After that, after that," he says, making an impatient hand gesture. "What are you doing? Where are you going?"

It takes a moment for my brain to process, as I stand there blinking at him. "Well, I've got a lot of work to do," I say, too tired to raise my voice above a husky rasp for the moment, and clear my throat. "But I feel like the rest of the day and most of the night is going to be wasted on me just trying to rest after yesterday. It's been a lot of shocks all at once. I'm not... I'm not in a very good place right now," I admit, and I see that my eyes are leaking again, droplets hanging off my hair and making little wet circles on his desktop between my hands.

"And I haven't been, not since yesterday morning when I left your bed. I had hoped, when I went out, that everything would be resolved without any metaphorical bloodshed, but it didn't go that way. So I had a very rough night, and then I just... I know I gave myself three days to try and resolve it, but it hurt too much, and I- I didn't have the heart to keep trying. Not when it had to be like that."

"Like what? What were you doing?" he asks.

"Trying to break the link," I repeat, then shake my head. "I told you, it could only be done the same way it was made."

"Yeeeessss...?"

Oh gods. No. He didn't understand? "In person," I prompt, but his expression doesn't change. I take a deep breath. "_In person_. Something like that doesn't happen just from holding hands," I whisper, ashamed, and throw my hands up helplessly, then bow my head, a silent sob rocking me as I feel my shoulders begin to shake.

"You... Again. With him," he says, flatly, and I nod miserably.

"And it didn't even _work_," I lament, my voice thick with the sobs I'm trying to choke back. I don't have a right to this agony. I did this to myself. "Being there, with him again... feeling all the intensity and that heavy pull again, I just... There came a moment when I realised what I really wanted was just to go _home_. I need to be back where I belong."

There is a long silence while I gather myself, and I see him folding up the paper again, carefully flattening it out and setting it to rights before he slides it across the table to me. "Right then, I guess that's it. Unless there's something else," he says, voice low and hard, and I look up sharply, the bottom falling out of my stomach. Oh no.

"Alistair-" I start, but he cuts me off.

"No, no I get it. I really do," he says, folding his arms over his chest as he sits back, and I can feel my eyes getting wider as a sick feeling of horror oozes its way into my stomach. Oh gods, his face, it's cold as winter.

Please, no, not this. No, not after everything else. "I-"

His mouth twists as he cuts me off again, gesturing behind him, toward my room. "Spare me. You can just take the extra trunk in your room; I'm sure Mahariel's won't hold it all."

And there it is. Strike me dead. He's fed up with me. I couldn't break the chain, spent the night away from him, and now I pay for it with everything. At least with Zevran, I could be righteous; I knew I hadn't done anything wrong. Not so, here. He's right to do it. I don't even bother trying to hide my desolation, the tears that now flow freely. I can't pretend.

"Oh..." I say, weakly, backing away from him. They always say, 'you can't go home again', and look, I left it, and I don't get to have it back. I deserve this, I really do. I knew I was being unfaithful last night, but I did it anyway, hoping it would let me keep my life, and instead, I just threw it all in the sea. "Okay... I understand... I'll..." I swallow as my back hits the door, resting my hand on the latch. "I'll find another place to live," I say softly, my eyes sliding away, because I can't bear to see any more rejection right now. I can't even keep my shit together, I'm so tired. He's getting a rare dose of unmasked Lily right now, and there's not a damned thing I can really do about it. I'm talking to my boots now. I nod, trying to steel myself. "After that... I mean, why would you still want me? It wouldn't make any sense."

Too weak to hold Zevran, too faithless and broken to hold Alistair.

I can't stand it anymore, and I just start babbling, speaking all in a rush. "I'm so sorry- But I brought this on myself, I know, and- Y-You deserve better-" Choking as I open the door behind me, I quickly roll through the opening and stumble down the hallway toward my room before I hear any more of that terrible, flat tone.

It is condemnation enough. There's no defending what I've done. I know, it was in the name of trying to break free, but the fact is, all I did was take everything away from myself. "Just like always- Destroying everything, every time I turn around, so stupid- Can't just be happy with what I've got, no- Everyone dies someday, could've just let things go, but oh no, can't do that-" I murmur to myself, still talking fast, shaking my head as I bend to fetch the key that's slipped out of my shaking fingers.

This is going to hurt Anders, who's laid his life on the line for me more than once, who nearly died for me a couple of nights ago. This is going to hurt Leliana, when all she's ever done is support me and stand by me. This is going to hurt Brizio, who has come to treat me as an equal and a partner; I won't be able to work here anymore. Worst of all, I've hurt Alistair, the one man in all the world who was innocent in all of this charade, and broke his faith, his trust in me. I never deserved it. Not any of it. And now I've done the one thing in all my life I swore I would never, ever do to someone: cheat. I deserve this.

"Should've kept my hands to myself- Should've known better- Deserves better than _me_- Of _course_ he does, idiot- Tearing people's lives apart, so stupid- oh gods." I try to shove the key in the lock and drop it again. "Trying to hold onto things I don't deserve- _Again_- So faithless, what's _wrong_ with me? Thinking I can have a life like _this_- Should've known- Should've just _drowned_-" I sob again in frustration as the key slips against the lock for the third time, and then a big hand folds itself over mine, steadying me. Instead of helping, though, he pulls the key away from me, and I let him, covering my face with both hands and turning away. I'm not his problem anymore.

"Hey, hey, hey," he murmurs, putting his hands on my shoulders, and I jump, instinctively trying to scramble back, because I know better than to try to lean on him now.

"No, no don't- I can't- Don't touch me anymore, I can't take it- I know I have to leave- It's too much, I just can't-" I babble, pulling away.

"Shhh... Lily, Lily stop, shhh..." Suddenly I'm enveloped in his heat, his strength; his arms wrap tightly around me as he pulls me into his chest. My voice breaks on a shattered scream, barely enough to make any noise at all, as I flail, completely ineffectually because I want to get away to protect myself and my stupid, wretched heart, but I also don't want him to let go. Ever. "Maker's breath, woman," he murmurs, and I feel his lips press to the top of my head, touching off another round of shameful, useless sobbing.

He shifts toward me and I hear the lock click on my door, feel the way he moves as he pulls it open; I stumble along with him, trying to get a grip, but I'm just too tired and miserable to be capable of it. I pull free as he turns to shut it behind him, careening over to the bed, and sit down, wrapping my arms around my waist, hunched in on myself. "It's okay, you don't have to stay; I'm not stupid. I'm not going to hurt myself, break anything, or steal from you. I'll be fine. You can go," I say all at once, and then feel the bed dip as he completely ignores me and sits down at my side.

"Maker," he says again, and I feel his hand taking up almost a quarter of my back. "Get you upset and you talk so fast I wonder how you breathe," he murmurs, all that heat slowly tracing broad circles from my shoulder to my waist and back again. I can't help how he affects me, the peace he always has about him slowly filtering through me, calming my trembling. I don't have a right to this, either. He's taking care of me, when I've just done so much to tear him up, when I should be packing my shit, he's sitting here trying to calm my ass down instead of doing the shit he needs to do with his day. Here I am, turning people's lives upside down again.

Slowly, my breathing evens out as I slump forward, hair hanging to my ankles when I rest my head on my knees. Everything is spinning, I'm so tired. I don't have the energy to keep up with my fear and self-hate right now, as it all hollows out, pushing to the edges in favour of a numb blackness that is stealing over me, turning me to ice. I can feel myself leaning into him, and that's dangerous. I can't afford to be seeking solace here anymore. I need to learn to stand on my own damned feet again. I should have known better than to believe in a life safe enough to lean on people. There's no such thing. I should have known better. I should have known.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get hysterical," I say, after a while, face still buried in my knees. "I wasn't trying to manipulate you into feeling sorry for me. Just too tired to keep a grip on things I normally would. I'll pack my things and be out by lunch; you don't have to stay." My voice is husky with the dregs of my freak-out, but at least it's steady this time. I need to be done with this idea that other people want to deal with my shit. Emotional roller-coaster, that's what my mom always used to call me. 'You leave a wake of destruction everywhere you go,' she told me, and she's right. Look: she's right. Stupid. I've been told before how toxic and destructive I am. I should know better than to try and tie myself to people. All I do is tear their lives apart. I'm no good for anyone. Once he's gone, I'll just pack my shit and go. I've got enough coin that I can probably rent an apartment or something, whatever the hell it is people do here. I'll be fine. I'll sleep when I get there.

His hand pauses in one of its revolutions, having long since shifted to include my entire back, and I tense. "I know," he says slowly, his own voice low. "Is it okay if I want to?"

My heart thuds dangerously, stopping my breath as I ball my fists in my shirt. No. Do I even dare look at this out of just the corner of my eye? We've had a conversation like this before. Surely it's not coincidence. "You... want... to?" I ask hesitantly, my line in this play, and his hand shifts further across my back, wrapping around my opposite shoulder as he leans closer.

No-no-no-no-no- I can't leave if he does this, no- It already hurts too much, oh gods, please-

"Sometimes the complicated thing is necessary, so the easy thing can be possible," he says, and I choke on it, because that's what I said to him yesterday before I left, trying to justify myself. I feel his heat slowly creep across my shoulders, and then my hair is shifting away, stroked aside by thick, gentle fingers, though I keep my face pressed to my knees to hide my shame.

"What...?" My voice is strangled and muffled from my hiding. Is he trying to remind me of all my broken promises?

The bed evens out as he rises from it, not answering, and then he's at my feet, unlacing my boots and taking my socks, as well.

"You're not leaving," he says firmly, stopping my heart. The tone of his voice brooks no argument, even were I inclined to make one. I hum softly, desperately, still not daring to believe as his hands pass over my feet, both gentle enough to soothe and firm enough not to tickle, the only hands I've ever truly trusted them to, and he knows that.

Feet bared, he leaves me; I hear him padding across the floor, the flip of the lock, and then the bed dips behind me. Oh gods, what is he doing- One long arm reaches out, snaking around my hips, and tugs me backward. I roll, finding myself against his bare chest, and suck in a breath, tensing as he throws the blankets over us. "No more talking," he murmurs as I open my mouth. He puts his finger under my chin, tipping it up, and suddenly his lips are on mine, silencing whatever protest I may have had trembling on them. The sound that comes out of me is less whimper and more wail, but it's smothered by the softer, more questioning note that follows right behind it.

Could I be so lucky? I don't know how I rate such forgiveness, but I don't want to question it right now, and I'm certainly not going to turn it down. Oh gods, a second chance... A bright flame of hope kindles in my breast, but I have to admit, I'm terrified it will burn me.

His hands slide down me, pulling apart the buttons on my jeans easily, and shoving them down over my hips. I wriggle out of them, eventually kicking them out from under the blankets, and all the while, he refuses to let go of my mouth, his tongue wrapping around mine keeping me effectively silenced and melted against him. Once my pants are no longer an issue, I tangle my legs with his, and he pulls me closer, as tightly as possible. His hands wander over my curves restlessly, as though he's forgotten the shape of me and needs desperately to remember.

After a time, when I've stopped trembling completely and have collapsed from all my tension, he tucks my head under his chin, wrapping me up securely, folding me in his safety. "Why?" I ask at last, then immediately wish I hadn't. What if I make him look at it too closely and he realises he's made a mistake?

"Hmm?" he mumbles, shifting slightly and brushing some of my hair off his chin. "Hm. Oh." His arms tighten around me a bit, and he shakes his head. "The look on your face. I've only seen it once, and that was in the first couple of days when he left you here. I didn't understand, at first, but I realised after you ran out that when you said you wanted to be back home, where you belong, you meant _here_, and you'd looked that way this time at the thought of losing _me_."

I make some strange, strangled little sound, burying my face in his shoulder, my fingers flexing against his skin. _Aphrodite, I know I owe penance and gratitude in equal measure..._

His fingers stroke through my hair, pulling it off my sticky cheeks and out of his stubble. The feeling of his hands against my scalp is a comfort, and something he does that I love, that always calms me, the way he ends up massaging my head at the same time. "And then I came out to the hallway and found you hysterically babbling hateful things to yourself, filled to bursting with the idea that everyone would be better off if you'd never survived to reach us. All because you believed I was done with you and wanted you to leave." He sighs, and so do I. "I can't believe you'd think that, Lily, it's madness. I'm sorry I misunderstood you at first; it took me a moment to catch up. I haven't had much more sleep than you; it was a rough night for me, too."

This still doesn't answer my question, though. Why would he just forgive me like this? It doesn't make sense. "I don't understand," I say, throat tight, and he shakes his head, hands wandering up and down my back.

"I'm not surprised, and that's a sad thing. Maybe after a while, you will."

"You still want me?" I ask, my voice tiny, still barely believing, even with my ear pressed to his heart and his arms around me.

"You're crazy, and a little broken," he says, quoting me, and I can hear the touch of humour in his voice. "But you're _my_ crazy, broken girl."

Oh, my heart. "Even after-"

"Yes, even after," he says, weary. So am I. "I understand. You didn't do it for fun or some kind of lingering affection; you did it because you thought you had to, making yourself a sacrifice again. I could see it in your face. You've really got to stop that, you know." He pauses, then says, "And because I love you, Lily. Even before you came, though it's taken this last year and a bit, listening to you, watching the way you move and the things you do, to separate the pieces and see them for what they were. But once I had, it was so clear... It was never Mahariel I loved. It was you. It was always you."

My breath catches and I blush hotly. _Oh, sweet Aphrodite._ "I love you, too," I whisper, and his hand strays into my hair. It's true. It's not the deep well of passionate completion that I feel when I'm with Zevran, but it's real and true, and bright enough to light my life and warm my soul. "Don't let go. Please, Alistair-"

"Never," he promises.

He let me come home. "Thank the gods," I murmur, relieved, and finally allow myself to pass out, safe in his arms.


	30. Creations

I've been making another specialty chess set.

This one is warriors versus rogues. The rogue army is dark and lithe. The soldiers are all dual-wield, in a variety of dynamic battle stances, their mages sardonic, the knights smiling and charming. The king is elven, and his queen covers the lower half of her face with a fan, but she's wearing Isolde's dress. Her hair is piled so you can't see the tips of her ears, whether round or pointed. The warrior army are light coloured but heavy, all two-handed, with axes or broadswords, their mages fearsome, the knights tall and proud. The king is clearly a warlord, bold and arrogant, and the queen is a tragic figure, face shrouded by her hair, but she has a knife hidden in her hand, the blade resting along the length of her forearm. The warriors' rooks are conventional towers, but the rogues' are ships.

A wooden, folding board would make too much noise. Instead, I paint it on a sheet of sailcloth. It needs to be easily portable, but I make a frame for it where the corners interlock like puzzle pieces, so if it needs to be converted to a permanent board, it would be easy. I've written the instructions down so many times by now that I know how many pages of parchment I need, and even get half-way through it before I realise that parchment is noisy. I finish it anyway, and start over again on muslin.

The game pieces rattle, so I find a way to silence them. After some debate, I think the best thing I could use for it would be my flannel. I don't look at how highly personal and significant this move is; there's no mistaking the fabric, as they don't have anything quite like it, here. I cut it up and sew staggered pockets along a rectangular stretch, tops pointed inward so pieces won't slip out. The instructions lay across the top, the canvas rolls up neatly around it, and it all fits in a scroll case, except for the frame.

I carry it around in my bag, and I don't show it to anyone. I don't know when or if I'll have the guts to send it.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"Anders?"

The mage in question is currently asleep, slumped awkwardly on a couch in the library. Pounce is sprawled out proprietorially over his lap, looking at me suspiciously, tail flipping back and forth. Ever since... the _incident_, he's been doing the same thing Zev and I did for a while. It got really bad last month; he couldn't stay awake for more than about five hours at a time. Now that we're nearing the end of Harvestmere, he seems to be coming out of it, but I still find him asleep in random places sometimes. Benina fussed and clucked over him like a mother hen, but now that he's feeling better, I've seen less of her.

"Anders..." I sit down next to him, touching his shoulder, and he rolls toward me, throwing an arm over my waist and mashing his face into my breast. Pounce, dislodged, jumps down and wriggles into Anders' satchel, little grumpy tail twitching out the side. "Oh for gods' sake. Wake up, man," I say, shaking his shoulder, and he blinks. He sits up suddenly, eyes wide, and rubs his face, surprised.

"Maker, Lily, what-" I laugh as he turns bright flaming red, a rare sight, but he rallies quickly, his typical rakish grin reasserting itself. "If I'm going to wake face-first in your cleavage, I'd like to at least remember how I got there. Alas, I seem to have forgotten all the good bits."

It's his turn to laugh and mine to blush, and I sock him in the arm lightly. "Jerk. You rolled over and stuck your face in my boob when I tried to wake you up. I don't know about any good bits; when I came in, it was Pounce in your lap, so make of that what you will."

He makes a face, and I laugh. "Eeeew... That's just... that's not right. He's a cat."

"Hey, y'know, to some guys, pussy's pussy," I retort, and he smacks his forehead with his palm, shaking his head and groan-laughing at the badness, making me giggle. "I know, that was a little too obvious. Ah, but sometimes the easy ones are funny, just 'cause y'haven't heard 'em in a while."

He yawns, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, and looks over at me again, shaking his head. "Okay, so, I'm awake. What is it? I assume you were looking for me for a reason," he says, and I sigh softly.

He has been sort of grumpy and abrupt with me since the Incident, and I'm not sure what to think, so I just try to overlook it. "Yeah... Uh, I was wondering if you could find me some families. I've got stuff I need to send out into the community."

He blinks, then his brow furrows in confusion. "What?"

I take a deep breath. How do I explain this? "Uh... Well, the night that... that we both nearly died... Uh... I was praying. A lot. For you. And... well... Okay, there are three Fates, three goddesses who weave the tapestry of life. Clotho spins the thread, Lachesis weaves it into the tapestry, and Atropos cuts it when Lachesis says the thread is finished. Each thread is a life. So... I was begging them to weave you back in, not cut the thread. And they... answered. Uh... so, I have these things that I need to distribute, as charity. Um, so I need you to help me, because you're the one who knows the most people who have the least. I want to give these things to people who don't have a lot."

"Okay..." he says slowly, studying me carefully, and I know he's taking me seriously, but he isn't quite sure what to make of it yet. "What have you got?"

Here, I'm on firmer ground. "I've got three rocking chairs and three hope chests." So far. I decided that in order for it to be proper, there needed to be carving and such. They have to be beautiful, or they're not a real sacrifice, because beauty takes time. Also, I realised only too late that Andrastians don't bury their dead, they burn them, and mostly they don't keep the ashes either, so urns and coffins wouldn't work. Instead, I determined that hope chests would be the best idea. So, cradles for the babies, hope chests for the adults, and rocking chairs for the elders.

He blinks. "What are those?"

They don't have rocking chairs here. No wonder Brizio's been looking at me funny. It's my turn to smack my forehead. "Well, a rocking chair is just what it sounds like; it's on curved runners, and it goes back and forth smoothly, kind of on the same principle as a cradle, only not side-to-side. I need to give two of them to families with elders. And a hope chest is a wooden trunk with a flat lid, for storing linens and dishes, things that a woman will save for when she is ready to get married, move out of her parents' house, or start her own home. Later, it becomes the place where family memories are stored, as well, like baby clothes and such - the hope for the next generation. So, I'll need two families with young girls in them for that, too."

"You said two families, but you also said you've got three of each thing, so where are the other two going?"

I was expecting this, and take a deep breath. "To the Hahren in the alienage. I want her to decide who should get them, or whether they should be shared, or what. I'm also going to make three cradles, so I'll need you to locate two pregnant women for me, because those will go faster, and should be finished by Satinalia."

"Hmmm..." he mutters, looking at me, and I shift uncomfortably. "And you're doing this because of me?" he asks, and I shake my head, then nod.

"Yeah- Well, no, but... Yes, actually. The Fates let us keep you, so... they need some kind of tribute, that way the next time I ask them for intervention, they'll be more likely to be favourably disposed toward me. I've asked the gods for help many times, and so far, they've never let me down, but I've also always remembered to make proper tribute afterward, so... I'm not inclined to play with a system that seems to be working out pretty well."

He nods. "Fair enough. I'll look into it. Is that it?" he asks, and I can feel my smile slipping.

I look down at my hands and nod. "Yeah," I say softly, then peek up at him through my hair. He's looking off down the rows of books, preoccupied, and not at me, so this gives me a little more boldness than I otherwise might have. "Are you okay?"

He turns back to me, brow furrowed. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

I bite my lip, but it's been worrying me and randomly hurting my feelings, so I can't stay silent on it any longer. "Because you... I get the feeling like I'm bothering you, most of the time," I admit, watching my fingers as I fold a bit of the hem of my tunic into a fan shape. "Did I do something?"

He exhales slowly, bowing his head, and I bite my lip. "Er... No..." he says slowly. That's not exactly a very convincing denial, and it's not like him to hesitate like this. "I'm sorry, Lily. It's not you, really. It's just hard to separate- When I was trying to bring you back, I reached through you, following the thread that binds you to Zevran, but when I did that, I saw things I shouldn't have seen."

"Like my grandmother?" I ask softly, and he nods.

"I did see her, and many of the other spirits of your dead. But I also saw into your mind, and his, because I had to push through to reach him. Does that make any sense?"

I nod. "Like wrapping your hand in fabric, only the fabric was our souls," I say, and he nods.

"Exactly. Do you understand now?"

I look at him, my brow furrowing. "Uh... It can't have been easy..." I venture. "Confusing, I'm sure."

He shakes his head. I'm still missing something. "I saw into your minds, but I wasn't just a witness. What you felt, I felt. What he felt, I felt. And what that was..." He takes a deep breath. "Lily, I really didn't expect you to come back, when you left to go meet with him."

I blink. "What? Why?"

He just stares at me for a moment, then takes another breath, letting it out slowly before speaking. "Because I could feel the strength of the emotion that forged that chain, and it's not one-sided. I _felt_ it." he says, his hand forming a fist over his heart. "Like it was _mine_. I still do, sometimes." He stops and swallows, looking away from me again. Oh gods, no wonder. He's stuck in the middle of all these feelings, for both Zev and me, that aren't really his, but he can't help that they exist within him now.

I take a shaking breath, finding that both my hands are covering my mouth. "I'm sorry," I say softly.

"For what?"

"That you have to feel it, too. It's bad enough that _we_ have to suffer with it. With him, though, it's ever a matter of what I _must_ do. In this case, I _had_ to walk away, because I'm not strong enough to hold him. It doesn't matter how I feel, how he feels, what we want or desire. The Crows don't care about any of that. The whole thing just leaves me hollow, is a constant dull ache that never really goes away, but just like my back, it's a pain I can and have learned to live with, to the point that I don't feel it much, unless something happens to bring it to the forefront of my mind."

I pause, trying to cram all the pain back into its box, swallowing twice before I can continue. "I can't keep chasing echoes of the past. It's no good for me, and neither is he. But... what I've got here _is_. For the first time in my life, things have been calm and stable. Loving doesn't burn me and being touched doesn't hurt. It's safe for me to trust people. I don't have to watch my back all the time, because I can believe that the people around me will do that. I'm not afraid all the time. If I left here and tried to join him, _none_ of that would be true. The only thing I'd gain is a place at his side, and it would be at the cost of _everything else_." I swallow again, my voice deserting me. "I'd rather die here, happy, safe, useful, and well-loved, than live there, having the fiery intensity and rightness of being next to him... but nothing else."

I take another deep, shaking breath. These are things my mind knows to be true, no matter how part of my heart may rail against it. "So yes... I came back. I came _home_. Of course I did, Anders, I _love_ Alistair. It's not the crazy dizziness I feel when I get next to Zevran, but when I compare what has come to me from their hands? I'd rather _not_ be crazy, thanks." Never mind that it was all on purpose, from Zev's end. The only people who know that are me, him, and Alistair. "Alistair is the best thing to ever happen to me, and I don't know why it took me so long to see it, but I'm not about to give him up."

Anders studies me for a long moment, hopefully seeing that I'm dead serious. Yes, my soul aches for Zev if I don't guard my thoughts, but I'm not lying: I can't give up all this for such a life of uncertainty and fear. Not after all that Zev - that _we_ - have suffered for it. What kind of sense would that make? It'd be suicidal at best. "Really? You truly love him?"

I bite my lip, a tear starting from my eye, and drop my gaze to my hands, nodding. "I do. And I don't see that changing. Gods, Anders, I've never been so happy in my life. It would be the height of stupidity to turn away from it. I want him. I want _this_. I like who I am, here. Things finally make sense. I like that, and I want to keep it."

There is a pause, and his voice is quiet and serious when he speaks again. "Then why are you crying?"

I shake my head, grimacing. "Because it still hurts to know, to fully face the fact that love, by itself, is not enough to make something work. Believe me, I know. It's strong. You can see why it dragged me across the floor, and that was just an echo of what dragged me across the barrier between worlds. But now that I'm here... I need to have a life, too. I can't just live for that feeling, and that's what I was trying to do." Standing up, I straighten my tunic and wipe my cheeks, then look back at him. "I'm sorry you're saddled with those echoes. Just... try not to look at it. That's what I do. And now... I think I want to go find Alistair and kiss him until I forget that I was unhappy for a minute." I give him a small smile, one that he returns, some of the tension gone from him. "Don't forget about the families."

"Right," he says, nodding, reaching down to catch at Pounce's flipping tail. "Come see me again tomorrow."

"Yup."

I wish I _could_ go find Alistair and drown myself in his kiss, but his voice rising above the racket coming from the training yard tells me that I'll just have to wait. "Come on! Circle, circle! Keep your backs together... Oh! Move!-move!-move!- Ohhhhhh," he groans at some poor recruit, sympathetic disappointment clear. "You're darkspawn!"

I laugh as I pass by, heading for the shop. The day is young, yet. I bet I could get the bed part of a cradle cut out and assembled before dinner, if I get a move on. Coming back into the shop, I smell the familiar tang of varnish and check out the new chair Brizio's been making as I tie my hair up on my head again. The shop is stuffy and hot, as usual, even with the windows open. It's just the tired, humid swelter of late October. Harvestmere. Whatever. I still get the names wrong sometimes, especially since August is still August.

"Eh?" he grumps, looking at me as I eye one of the joints, and I back up quickly, putting my hands up.

"Nothin', nothin'. Lookin' good, sir," I say, retreating to my own corner of the shop and stifling a grin. He's happy to learn new techniques from me, but he's full of pride on them, and doesn't take criticism well. It'll hold, it's just not very pretty, and that's okay. I can leave it alone.

I'm sketching the pieces onto the boards, positioning my lines properly, brow furrowed, when Brizio comes up beside me to look at my work. "What are you making this time, girl?" he asks, curious as always, and I smile.

"Cradle," I mumble around the pencil in my mouth, drawing an arc with my compass for the top of the headboard. A couple of hours later, closing in on dinner, I'm busily gluing and clamping the pieces together when I feel someone standing near, and turn, looking up. I'm expecting Brizio, so I have to adjust, leaning rather farther back to look up at Alistair, watching me with a strange expression on his face. I arch an eyebrow, then turn back to my work, because the glue dries really fast, and I have to get everything banged together before it sets up too much for me to get stuff straight. "I should be done here pretty soon," I tell him. "I just need to get this piece clamped down properly, and then I can come to dinner."

"Er... Is there something we maybe need to talk about?" he asks cautiously, and I blink.

"Uh. What?" The footboard slips into place and I take a mallet to it, hammering it fully flush before I grab the clamps and begin to tighten everything down.

"What are you building?" he asks.

"A cradle," I reply, not even thinking about it, and then pause. "Oh." I look around, but my partner is nowhere in sight. Of course. "Brizio tattled on me, eh?" I wipe the sweat off my forehead with my wrist, still making final adjustments on the pieces as they shift while I tighten the clamps down.

"Yep. So give. What's with the cradle?"

I grin, flashing him a look as I turn it around, making sure all the edges are lined up properly. "It's not for me, silly. If it were, this would hardly be the way you found out." I set it down gingerly, then pull my hands back. I watch it for a moment, and stand up once I'm satisfied it won't fall apart. I groan, stretching my back and arching before I turn to face him. "Besides, you said Wardens can't have babies."

I can't quite read his face as he looks at me with dark eyes, but his brows are up in surprise, and then he smirks. "You're not a Warden," he says, and I feel my own brow furrow.

"Uh... no?"

"That's something I said to Mahariel," he says, like this should make everything obvious, but I'm still lost.

"Yeahhh...?"

"Who was also a Warden," he says, leading me along, but I'm still lost, and he laughs softly, shaking his head and smiling. Reaching out, he wraps his hands around my hips and pulls me closer. "The chances of two Wardens conceiving a child are pretty non-existent. But _you_ are not a Warden."

I blink. He's right. I'm not. All this time, I've been thinking that Wardens can't have babies. "Wait, but then why would Anders tell me one time that he wouldn't be able to have a family?"

"Hmmm... When was that?"

"Uhhh... I don't know, sometime in the first month or two after I got here," I say, and Alistair smirks.

"Because his lover at the time was a man," he says. Suddenly everything makes sense, and he grins widely as he watches the light go on in my head.

"Ohhhhh... That explains so much!" And then another thought occurs to me. We _could_ have a baby.

A _baby_.

I feel my mouth drop open as I look up at him, and I know by the way his face changes, the seriousness stealing into his eyes, that he sees exactly what I'm thinking.

"Hmmm... I thought you knew," he says, and I'm not sure if he means about Anders or Wardens' baby-making capabilities, but either way, I didn't, and I shake my head. I'll just pretend we're talking about Anders. The idea that he might be bisexual simply never occurred to me, but I can see it, and in that light, some of the off-handed comments he's made suddenly make more sense. 'Popular with gents and ladies alike,' he said, that first time I met him, and I was so preoccupied, it didn't register.

"Man, you'd think I would've noticed by now," I say, wincing with embarrassment. "I didn't even think about it, you know; it's just the sort of thing that's not my business, and it's not like he's obvious about his attachments."

"Nope. Circle mage," he says, and another light goes on. Of _course_ he wouldn't be.

"Good gods, I'm uncommonly oblivious," I say conversationally, and he laughs.

"Maybe sometimes. But it's cute," he says, then grabs me as I growl at him, pulling me flush against him and kissing me thoroughly, making me forget that I was sort of vaguely offended at him for a second. He has a way of making me lose my head, but even so, I know my hands are filthy, and I hold them out away from us, even though it makes wriggling closer a lot harder to do; I finally pull back, regretfully.

"I'm totally disgusting right now. I need to wash up before dinner."

"We've got a couple of hours," he says, voice dropping lower, making me shiver, and I can't help but blush, which earns me a dark smile. It's earlier than I thought; the quality of the light plays tricks on me at this time of year.

I barely make it out of the baths with my dignity intact, having to leg it to my room double-time just to keep ahead of the single-minded man on my tail. The possessive determination in his eye when he shuts the door behind him takes my breath away.

Oooh, I'm _toast_.

I blush hotly and cover my mouth, eyes dropping. He is across the room in three strides, surprising me and sending my heart in my throat. Catching my hand, he presses the back of it to his lips. "No, don't hide _that_ smile; that's the best one ever - it's mine." I can't help it, he makes grin again, and he's got both my hands. I tip my head to the side, still bashful, but even my hair can't hide me because it's wet and hanging down my back. He steps closer, all that heat just a moment away, and I close my eyes, breath catching. Nothing happens for a moment, and when I look back at him, I find that he has dropped to his knees in front of me; his hands slide down my back to my waist and over my hips as he nuzzles my belly, breathing deeply.

I run my fingers through his hair, ever surprised by the way he practically worships my stomach, and the curiosity just burns me. "What is it about my stomach and hips that you love so much?" I ask as his hands slide up under the edge of my shirt, leaving hot prints on my skin.

"You really want to know?" he asks, pushing the fabric out of the way so he can lay searing kisses across the width of my hips. I gasp, swaying toward him, and pull my shirt off over my head, impatiently tossing it aside.

"Yes," I whisper, eyes fluttering closed.

He doesn't answer at first, as he takes his sweet time getting my pants unbuttoned, slowly rolling the fabric aside and down. He always does this, so deliberate and careful, and I shiver as his breath washes across my skin, raising goose flesh. "Hmm... Let's see... There's this-" he says, fingertips trailing the curve from the base of my ribcage to the swell of my hips. He tugs my jeans firmly with one hand, and I gasp as my right side is suddenly exposed from waist to thigh. "And this-" His thumb strokes over the point of my hipbone and as he presses his cheek to the hollow, I notice for the first time how right it feels, how perfectly he fits there. "And this-" he murmurs. Tilting his chin, he presses his lips to the soft spot at the inside top of my thigh, just at the edge of my hair, and I gasp, quivering on the point of anticipation.

His hair is thick and soft between my fingers as the scorching heat of his tongue drags the line from there along the curve of my belly to the point of my hip, drawing a soft moan from me. "Oh, and that; I like the sound of that," he says with a tinge of smugness, face turning again. His fingers curl in the waistband on the other side, tugging it down to match, so he can reach the top of my hair and press open-mouthed kisses all along the line of it, followed by another sweep of his tongue up to the point of my other hip. I moan again, swaying toward him as my knees go weak, and he hums softly with approval and desire.

His hands smooth down over my hips, pushing my jeans further down and off. "So _round_," he says, tracing the curve again, fingers straying along the edge of my bottom. Where I come from, that's not exactly a compliment, but he clearly _loves_ this about me, so I find myself feeling sexy about my big hips for the first time in my life. He shifts around me, lips nibbling along my skin until he is behind me, where he presses another open-mouthed kiss to the point just at the base of my spine, between the swells of my cheeks, and I cry out, the sensation rocketing all the way up my spine and setting my hair on fire.

"And this," he says, "I love this," and his big hands curl perfectly over my hipbones, grabbing me firmly, before dragging me down into his lap. I can feel the full, solid length of him pressed to my lower back and moan again, rocking my hips, making him growl softly. He kisses my neck, my head tilting to the side automatically as I reach behind me, wrapping my arms around his waist. His hands splay over my stomach as his lips descend. "I want to kiss the swell of your belly when you are fat with child," he murmurs, voice dark as velvet midnight, and I shudder, losing another low moan.

_When_.

Oh gods. "Oh, _tiger_," I whisper, then realise I got those backward, and said the thing I meant to only think. Oops.

"Hmmm... Oh _really_," he murmurs, a dark hum of amusement, breath across my neck and fingers ghosting up the insides of my thighs. That I think of him this way has been a secret up to now, and I whimper, catching my lower lip between my teeth as his touch hovers ever nearer my sex.

"Yes," I admit, shifting and turning just enough to catch his mouth, kissing him ardently and winding an arm over his shoulder. One of his hands travels upward over my stomach and between my breasts, caressing the side of my neck and the swell of my cleavage, but the other stays below, resting at the base of my belly, the solid heat of his shield hand. Oh gods. He's done this so many times, almost always, his shield hand resting there, at some point. He's been thinking about this for a long time.

Didn't he say, that very first night, that he wanted to be a father?

And now he's said it outright: he wants me to have his child.

I cover his hand with mine, lacing our fingers together and pressing his palm closer. Leaning back, I break the kiss, looking up into his eyes as they slowly open, my fingers trailing along the edge of his jaw.

Could I see a baby in his arms? Could I hear a child's laughter through the courtyard? Scampering footsteps on the stairs and a cradle in my room, oh gods-

_What the hand dare seize the fire?_

"Okay," I whisper, and he stares at me for a moment, lost. "But it might take me a few months," I add, my heart thudding hard in my chest. Oh gods, oh gods, my skin is full of birds as I watch him slowly apprehend my meaning, daring to believe, just as I am. His eyes are so serious, so thunderstruck, and oh, so dark. _Blessed Hera watch over me_. I can feel his heart pounding against my shoulder, the heat of his skin searing mine.

There it is again, that 'please don't play with me' look, as he cups my cheek, the pad of his thumb tracing over my lips. How much would it mean for both of us, to create the kind of family we never had, free of judgemental bickering and callous disregard? We could do it, too.

"Just like that?" he asks, voice hoarse, and I nod, pressing my cheek into his palm and kissing the ball of his thumb.

"Only thing stopping me was I didn't know we could."

In the next moment, he tips my face, pressing his lips to mine softly, gathering me up and pulling me closer. All the urgency has left him, his hands sliding over my skin, and he seems intent on devouring me, one kiss at a time. I am lost in a golden haze of skin and hair, mouth and hands, breath and heat; I'm not even sure when we made it to the bed, just becoming aware at some point of the softness beneath my back. I am surrounded in a cloud of his scent, in the strength of his arms, and I writhe beneath him, breathless and wanton, pushed far beyond the point of reason by his fiery hands and scorching kisses. His name falls from my lips again and again until he is finally - finally! - filling me, striking me speechless, stealing my breath and destroying my coordination in one smooth stroke. The moment I have air I wail, stars in my eyes, and I can't seem to stop, completely inarticulate, entirely his creature.

It is fully dark by the time we both lay exhausted and sweating, still intertwined but too torpid to move. One trembling hand slowly strokes over and through my tangled hair, idly pulling knots apart as I listen to the slowly settling rhythm of his heart. "Did you mean it, Lily?" he asks, voice husky, and I can't help but smile.

"Yes. Stop taking the herbs."

He pauses. "Wait, if you knew that I take herbs, how did you not know that children were possible?"

I laugh softly, curling closer into his warmth. "Anders told me all self-respecting men do so, that they're just expected to see to it and... When I first got here, while I had the option, I had him fix it so I'm actually capable of carrying a child. I didn't know until you said, and then I realised you must've been, because it couldn't be me anymore."

His arm tightens around my hips, and he pulls me a little closer before grabbing the blanket to shield us from the chill of the evening. "But... healers can only do so much. If you were barren... he couldn't have fixed that," he says quietly, and I bite my lip.

Curse me and my big fat mouth.

"Yeah..." I say slowly, swallowing, then shake my head. "Let's just say, some of the nightmares involve that."

"Maker... Lily, are you sure you want to-" he begins, alarm creeping into his voice, and I turn my face up quickly, locking my lips to his. I kiss him thoroughly, hand sliding up his chest to wind around his neck and sighing softly, moving against him in a slow roll before pulling back, fingertips whispering along his jawline as I open my eyes.

"I've never been more certain of anything in all my life."

"I love you," he murmurs. "You know that, right?"

I smile, giggling under my breath. "I hope so. Otherwise this whole baby-making business is going to be a little awkward." I bite my lip as he laughs, my thumb stroking over his cheekbone. "I love you, too."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

_25th Kingsway Alistair, Rumours from Antiva confuse me. I heard some time ago that one of my retainers was a casualty of a party where many leaders of noble families lost their lives last year, but I also hear recently that you have a house guest who answers to her description. I trust you will be able to see her home safely; I look forward to speaking with her after such a long exile from home. Teagan_

I swallow the knot in my throat, my stomach flipping. "Uh-" I start, then clear my throat, because my voice has deserted me. I look up from the paper, but Alistair has his head in his hands, elbows on the edge of his desk. "Shit."

"Yyyep."

"Oh shit, honey, I'm sorry," I whisper, hand over my mouth, and Alistair bows his head. "It's been so long, I didn't think there'd be any fallout from it."

"'Fallout'?"

Ah, yeah, nuclear age words for the lose. "Repercussions. It's been a year and a half."

"It may have taken time for them to put it together that you and she were in fact the same person," he says, resigned, and I groan softly, putting my head down on his desk, the letter falling from my fingers.

"When did the messenger get here?" I ask, resigned, and his answer, muffled by his hands, comes from above me.

"During dinner."

Oh, of course.

"Fuuuuuck," I mutter, and he laughs mirthlessly.

"Yep, my thoughts exactly."

"So... I have to go to Ferelden," I say, a rock settling in my stomach, and there is a moment of silence.

"I... think so."

I lift my head, looking up at him. "You 'think so'? Well it's either yes or no, I should think. Do I have to go?"

"I-" He sighs. "Yes. You really do. We have to speak to him directly. I wouldn't want to trust this to a letter, would you?"

"No-" I answer automatically, then blink, staring at him. "You said 'we'."

He stares at me, as well, eyes darkening with burgeoning offence. "Yes? You think I'm going to let you go alone?"

I feel my brow furrowing, and reach out, snagging one of his hands and lacing my fingers between his. "No, but... I didn't think you'd be able to just... leave."

The storm dissipates as fast as it blew up, and he squeezes my hand. Letting go, he scrubs his face with both hands, then runs them through his hair. "Hmmm... I know. But I've been thinking... I could leave things all right between Anders and Marco; I'd have Anders be the final word, but Marco knows how to keep everyone moving."

I bite my lip. "Shit." Taking a shaking breath, I push the letter closer to him. "This is dated just last month. How'd it get here so quick?"

He shakes his head. "Courier ships move a lot faster than naval and cargo vessels. Only takes about a month to get from here to there." He looks out the window pensively. "If we leave soon, we could get there before the winter storms make the passage too treacherous, but we couldn't make it back safely before the spring." He looks back at me, and his eyes are unreadable, making my stomach flip again. "What do you think?"

I cover my mouth with my hand, staring at his desk, and swallow hard. "Uh. What are we going to tell them? How-" I stare at him, at a loss. "You know people who worked with us during the Blight are going to recognise me. Cesar did, and that was random. We're actually going to go there and introduce me; my name's still Lily, and I wear this face," I say, drawing a circle in the air around it with my forefinger. "Even without the ears and the tattoo, they catch me in profile?" I sigh, covering my face with my hands again. "Why does everything have to be so complicated?"

"Not everything," he murmurs, and I peer out at him, spreading my fingers. He strokes my arm with the back of his hand, but his eyes are sad.

"How scared should I be?" I ask, feeling myself go pale.

"I really don't know," he says, and I swallow again as my hands begin to shake.

I take a deep, shuddering breath. "Okay. Okay," I say, running my fingers through my hair. "Well- Well, I'll just have to tell him the truth and hope for the best, right? Teagan's a smart man. M-maybe we can introduce him to chess." I give him a tremulous smile, and he catches one of my hands, engulfing it between both of his, kissing my fingertips.

"No matter what happens, I'll be at your side. No one will touch you. You'll be safe with me, Lily, I swear it."

"Oh gods," I whimper, curling my fingers, and rest my forehead against his hands.

"Shh..." he lets go with one so he can stroke my hair, and I close my eyes. "It's only Teagan."

I laugh, a little hysterical, my hand tightening around his. "Ah, but it's more than that, and you know it. It's Ferelden. I have no idea what's going to happen to me when we set foot there. I don't want to answer a million questions, because the answers are scary to everyone. I just want to _be_. Just the Wardens' carpenter, just here, just you and me. Oh gods." I shake my head, tears falling out of my eyes. "But it can never just be easy, can it. It has to be complicated, always has to be complicated." I hear his chair creak as he stands, not letting go of my hand, and comes around the other side of the desk, pulling me to my feet and into his arms. I can't help it, I'm shaking. I don't want this. I've worked so hard to put a solid wall between me and Mahariel, and now I have to tear it down and muddy the ground again.

But I used Teagan's name, and now I have to answer for it.

"We'll get through it," he murmurs, kissing the top of my head. "We'll go to Amaranthine first and check in with Nate, before we head to Redcliffe. We'll stay at Lloyd's, so you don't have to be cooped up in the castle, and if we have to, we can just leave. We could spend the winter at the Vigil, or we could even go up to the Peak."

"Shit," I mutter under my breath, and I know I just can't stop my shaking. His broad hands stroke up and down my back, and I close my eyes, listening to his heart beat, slow and steady. He's not freaking out. No reason to freak out, right? He's just taking me home to meet his family, and to answer for a really big fat lie I told when I first got here. "Okay." I take a deep breath, making a conscious effort to allow him to smooth the tension away from my shoulders, relaxing against him. "Okay," I repeat, a little steadier, the quaver in my voice flattening out. "How long before we have to leave?"

"Mmm... I wouldn't want to stay past Satinalia," he says, and I tense again.

"That's only four days from now."

"Yep. So... I'll make the arrangements, and you just get yourself packed up. No ship is going to be leaving the harbour that day, so I'll set us on the morning tide for the first of Firstfall." His finger comes up under my chin, tilting my face, and his eyes are dark as I meet his gaze. "I won't let anything happen to you," he promises, and kisses me softly. I sag against him, wanting so badly to believe.

I'm going to pack my armour, anyway. Against the Crows, I'm not so great, but I've been working out with the Wardens every week for over a year. I could totally take down some idiots if we run into trouble. Not so sure about the darkspawn, but we ended the Blight, so it should be safe, right? Right.

Right.

"We'd better go talk to Anders," he says, reluctantly pulling back, and I nod.

One step at a time.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

My hand is forced. I can't take this chess set with me to Ferelden, and it can't wait for me to come back, because there are no guarantees that I will.

First thing in the morning, I go out to the park and sit in our grotto for a long time, staring at the wall. I have been very carefully not thinking about this too much. I don't dare look at it too closely. It's just something that has to be done. I'm just making chess pieces. He needs to know how to play chess. I know what it does to a mind, how it can change the way a person thinks, and I know he'll take to it easily. I try really, really hard not to think about the fact that I am the one who distributed their points into things like cunning and dexterity, who chose the skills they have now. I very literally and directly shaped them in ways I can never utter, and I still want to help... yeah. That's what I'll keep telling myself.

On the wall, in chalk, I write three lines of Elvish: _Ar sa ma'enansal. El su'dar? Ar ma'dirth._ Under that, I drew the shape of the swoops of silver on my wedding ring. _I have a present for you. How can we make that happen? You tell me._

Then I go home and get to work, because I've got a lot of it to do.

Several hours later, I'm in the shop, not really paying much attention to the Warden who's shown up to converse with Brizio at first, barely aware of their presence, as I'm absorbed in my work and my thoughts, until I'm interrupted. "_Ehi_, girl, someone for you," Brizio grunts, hands full of the drawer he's making, and I look up.

Standing next to the Warden is a handsome dark-haired man with bronzed skin and dark eyes, a placid, carefully neutral, and 'generally amiable' mask upon his face. Something in the way he looks at me, even though it's just a glance, tells me he's not the kind of guy to miss much, and I wonder if he's a Crow. "I am come as courier," he says mildly, gesturing to the bag at his side.

I take a shaking breath, wiping my hands on my jeans, then gesture impatiently. "Fine. To the courtyard," I say, and the Warden turns, keeping a close eye on him, though he retreats a tactful distance once we're out in the open.

When the Warden has backed off a few paces, the man turns to me and pulls a parcel out of his bag, wrapped in cloth, and offers it to me with both hands. I notice he's not wearing gloves, so I don't worry too much about taking it, but I set it aside on a bench as he digs around in an inside pocket of his vest. He produces a folded piece of parchment, a fold I recognize, and the pattern on the seal one I will never forget.

Damn my traitorous heart and its thudding as I look at this paper. The thought that this was in his hands, that he must have touched it here, and there, pressing his ring to it, buzzes around in my head, making my hands tremble. Had I thought I was done with him for good? I just keep doing this to myself.

"I am told to wait here on your response," he says, and I look up, realising I've just been staring at it.

Swallowing hard, I nod and pop the seal, unfolding it.

_Emma sa'lath,_

Salvail dar emma falon. Dareth bora na dirth. Su tan'vunin, u'ven el'durgen. Ar dar'an.

Na mi

I glance up at the man, and he is standing a few paces away, side to me, looking up at the sky. "What's your name?" I ask softly, and he turns, the weight of his gaze direct and knowing, and cold as steel.

"Salvail, my lady. At your service," he says, an ironic twist to his mouth as he dips his head, and I feel my breath catch. Holy shit. This is like sending a noble to be your errand boy. I swallow, and I know he sees me understand what is going on as he smiles broadly.

_My one love,_

Salvail is my friend. It's safe to speak freely to him. In three days, go to our stone. I'll be there.

Your blade

I swallow. "Uh. How- Where do I go if I want to send another message, another time?"

He looks me up and down, clearly thinking it over, then beckons me close. I swallow again, but sidle up to him, and he leans in to whisper an address in my ear that's off the weavers' street, before drawing back slightly to look at me carefully. "This is not a known place," he murmurs, searching my face, and I nod.

"I may be the only person in all of Thedas who would crawl over knives and fire to keep him safe, if that's what it took," I whisper under my breath, trying to keep my lips from moving too much, even though I've dipped my head to make my hair shroud my face. "I will not speak of this place, and only use it in case of dire need." I look back down at the letter, chewing my lip. "Tell him... _Melana vunin him seth'alam_," I say, looking at him directly. _The time when the day becomes tenuously ended._ Sunset. I make him repeat it to me three times, until I'm confident he has it correct.

"He speaks of his wife as though she is dead," he murmurs, looking at me curiously, and I press my lips together, taking a deep breath.

"Everyone knows the Hero of Ferelden died slaying the archdemon to end the Blight," I tell him, keeping his gaze steadily.

"Hmmm... That is what is told, it is true," he says, and I shrug.

"Oh, it's not just said; it's completely true. Many saw her body; there was no mistake. She was carried to the Brecilian Forest, returned to her clan and buried, according to her Dalish customs." I don't flinch, because all of this is true, and pointedly tuck a lock of hair behind my round ear. "So, if he speaks of her as though she is dead, is it any wonder? She is." I take another breath, trying to keep myself steady. "Thank you for coming. You remember the message?" He repeats it back flawlessly, even with my accent to it, and I smile. "Thank you."

"_Bene_," he says, flipping a dismissive hand at me as though it is nothing, but he smiles.

The Warden sees him out, and I pick up my package, carrying it to my room. Closing and locking the door behind me, I set it on the bed and stare at it apprehensively before pulling the string and unwrapping it.

It's a Satinalia costume.

The dress is constructed of multiple layers of blue silk, dip-dyed and shaded, possibly hand-painted, to give the impression of shifting colours. The belting is silver and blue ribbons, the sleeves long and fluttery. The leather mask fully covers the upper half of my face, painted in matching shades of blue and silver. The corners of it swoop outward into my hair and downward to frame my cheeks in intricately worked and painted swirls, making it resemble a bird's wings.

Everyone in the entire country will be out in force that night. I'll blend in easily, to every eye but his.

I just have to figure out how to tell Alistair.


	31. Tick Tock

_A/N: Real life ate me alive the last couple of weeks; lots going on. I got all your love letters, my wonderful readers, and I saved every one of them for reply, but never got the chance. You all make me squee every time you send me one. If I don't answer, it's not because I wasn't interested, or didn't notice, I promise you. I live for the letters you send me. So, thank you for sticking with me, and putting up with the roller-coaster ride. It's not over yet, so hang on to your seats- I'm still at a 38 chapter estimate, so things are coming to an end. I've got the final arc mapped out; now I just need to write it. I love you guys. Ready for another thrown brick? Here it comes..._

After meeting with Salvail, I spend the rest of the day working like a fiend, then knock off an hour before dinner to hit the baths. Alistair doesn't show up for dinner, even though I linger a bit, so I finally head back to my room to do some packing. I wonder if I'll see him much before we leave.

I never did get to the bottom of Mahariel's trunk. I also never opened her journal; I've been afraid to touch it. But... it's time. I need to use this trunk, and I can't be lugging a bunch of extra bullshit with me all the way across the ocean and back.

Seizing hold of Starfang, I'm ready for it to burst into lightning this time, and drag it out of the box, lifting it up until I can get it onto the stand with Mahariel's dragon armour. I pull sheaves of arrows out, organising them by fletching, until I've made sense of the tangle, then bundle them all up together, setting them aside.

Here... Zev must have just grabbed things at random. There are some thirty-odd books with names I recognize from codex entries, The Legion of Steel, History of the Chantry, Adventures of the Black Fox... I've only read snippets of these. Maybe I should take some of them with me. I stack them off to the side for further consideration later. Under those, I've got the staff and robes I yanked from Morrigan after her little play for Alistair. They were still in my inventory when I died, so... Zev must've grabbed them from my room or something. Shit. What the hell do I do with these?

Anders, of course.

May as well give the arrows to Lels, while I'm at it, too. I go over to my altar, get the little box of jewellery from under it, and grab out Leliana's Seeker's Circle to take with me too, just for good measure. I haven't given it back to her yet, because I don't like to think about the Blight, and I don't like to remind the others of it, either, so I just let it languish there. She's never mentioned it. Gathering everything up, I head out, and hit the courtyard just in time to see Ponka go by with Schmooples. I follow them to Lels' room, where I find her sitting on her bed, tuning her lute. She looks up, smiling at Ponka, then blinks at me. I must be an odd sight, a mage's staff and robes in one hand and a big sack of arrows in the other, and I grin.

"I brought you a present," I say, holding up the bag, and she blinks again. "I've been going through Mahariel's trunk, since Alistair and I will be leaving in a couple of days," I explain.

"Ahhhh, I see. And so you have brought me her arrows?"

I nod. "Yeah, they're yours anyway. Gods, there were a ton extra, huh? I hoarded them like gold. I think there's even still some Andraste's in here, though Mahariel was the one who could tell them apart by the fletching. These silvery ones here, right?" I ask, setting the bag down and touching one of the feathered ends. Leliana nods, eyeing me, and I bite my lip. It freaks them out sometimes when I whip out Mahariel's knowledge, but I can't help it.

"I also brought you this," I say, pulling her necklace out of my pocket, and her eyes fly wide as saucers. I lay it in her hands as she stares at it, open-mouthed. "I saved it, figured you'd want it back someday, maybe," I say, shifting awkwardly. "Saved all the special jewellery and stuff, really. Seems like all the armour and shields got left up at the Peak though. I don't know why Zevran picked up all the arrows... Maybe just because they were with us in Denerim." I shrug. "Anyway, it's yours, so... I brought it back."

She looks up at me, and there are tears in her eyes. "I... I thought this was lost during the Blight... She said she was going to sell it."

I bite my lip. "Well... I didn't. I stuck it in my jewellery box." I shift again, my eyes sliding to the side as she continues to stare at me.

"Wait... isn't that the robe Morrigan was wearing for a while?" she asks, and I look down at it.

"Yeahhh... I confiscated it and the staff I gave her the night she tried to convince me I should let her maul Alistair so she could have an archdemon baby."

"She _what_?" she exclaims, and I smile bitterly.

"Yeah. The night before the assault on Denerim, she showed up in my room. She said if she got pregnant by a Warden, the soul of the demon wouldn't be lost when we killed it, that it would be 'cleansed' and she could give birth to an Old God. She told me this was the plan all along, that it was _why she came with us_ in the first place. So, she spent the whole Blight being a bitch to Alistair, and then asked my permission to fuck him, because she knew she'd never get him to do it on his own and she wanted me to _help her convince him_. I thought, for fuck's sake, couldn't she have just been _nice_ to him, got him for herself, and then had no problems getting what she wanted? But nooo... she had to be a flaming cunt and pretend to be _my friend_-"

I swallow hard, trying to push back all the hate that blossomed in me when she made that offer of hers, clearly not over it, even now. "I talked to Alistair about it, but he was of the same opinion. So, I made her give back the gear I'd given her and told her to get the fuck out, and if I ever saw her again, I'd kill her. That's why she was gone in the morning. She knew I wasn't fucking kidding. She's lucky I let her go." I take a deep, shaking breath. "It makes me even more angry now, knowing... knowing what he's _like_, what he- how-" I swallow again, feeling my mouth twist. "She didn't deserve _any_ of that from him. Not a _scrap_!"

There is a silence as I become aware that I'm holding the staff with a death grip and consciously unwind my fingers, flexing them a bit. Leliana is staring at me like I've just turned into an alien; I close my eyes, bowing my head, and take a few deep breaths. "I hate Morrigan with a fire so complete it would consume her if she ever got anywhere near me again. I hope the gods grant her everything she deserves, in full measure. She'll get nothing but a length of steel, from me."

"Is that you, or Mahariel?" she asks softly, and I laugh mirthlessly.

"Ohhhhh... heh. No, that's all me. I don't think Mahariel really cared; she would have let Alistair do it, if he thought it was best, but the look on his face when he asked if it was what I really wanted from him... I knew I couldn't force his hand like that. He, just like everyone else, has the right to choose who is in his bed, and I pity the fool who falls into hers. It would have been tantamount to rape, and I've _been through that_. I couldn't stomach it. Not by my hand. Not when I knew he'd only be doing it for love of me. That was just too cold." I press my lips together. I know that I'd be capable of murder, where that woman is concerned, and it wouldn't be an easy fight, either... except that I'd have Alistair with me, and he could completely nullify her magic, so I'd stand better odds going toe-to-toe with her. "I hope I don't meet her."

I take another deep breath, and look back up at Lels. "Anyway, not like I'll have to worry about that, I'm sure. No sense borrowing trouble."

She studies me for a moment, laying her lute aside, then rises to hug me. Startled, I wrap my arm around her waist and rest my head on her shoulder for a moment. "You're so different, Lily, sometimes it's easy to forget that you were there with us. Other times you're so much the same it's almost frightening," she says, pulling back, and I give her a tense smile.

"I know. That's why I try not to talk about it. Too much pain tied up in it all, yeah? There were good things, but..." I swallow, looking at my feet, trying to shove aside thoughts of my lost honey-gold. "Yeah..." I clear my throat, getting back on track. "Uh, so anyway, there's the arrows, and... I'm gonna go give this stuff to Anders, then get back to packing," I tell her, lifting my arm slightly to gesture with the staff. "I'll see you in the morning."

She bids me good night, and Ponka trots after me as I head to the clinic. The light's on, but the door's locked, so I knock. There's a muffled oath, the sound of papers and cloth rustling, and then Anders opens the door a crack, just wide enough to show a stripe of his face and the edge of his robe. He turns red and shifts awkwardly when he sees me, stepping back a bit and dropping his gaze, covering his mouth with one hand.

What the hell?

"Uh... if this is a bad time-" I start, but he shakes his head.

"No, no, it's fine, fine, come in," he says quickly, letting the door swing wider, and I cautiously step in, but nothing seems amiss.

"Er... Okay, so-" I start, but he's looking more closely at me now, and interrupts.

"Why do you have a robe and a staff?" he asks, and I smile.

"Here." When I hand over the staff it immediately bursts into snow, chilling the room by several degrees, and begins to whistle softly, like the wind across the chimney on a cold night. He looks at it in surprise, and I grin. "That's Wintersbreath. And here," I say, holding out the robe, and he takes it, as well. "I think I remember something about this having belonged to a mage named Reaver."

"Reaper," he corrects automatically, and then does a double-take, looking at me in surprise. "Wait, what? You're telling me this belonged to Reaper? You're having me on."

I shake my head. "Nope. I got this stuff during the Blight."

He looks at me suspiciously. "You mean Mahariel got them."

I growl impatiently. "She carried them, yes, but I'm the one who decided we'd buy them, and I'm the one who is bringing them to you now. So, I got these during the Blight, and when I found them in Mahariel's trunk, I thought you would be the best person to decide where they should go. I figured you might have better stuff, but... Wintersbreath is good, and the robe has pretty potent magic. It's been a while, so I don't really remember exactly what it does anymore... sorry. I just remember that it was one of the two best robes we ever found. I hoped you wouldn't have too much trouble figuring out what they do."

He stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head, looking down at the robe in his hand, before laying it aside over the back of a chair. He leans the staff against the wall, snowfall ceasing as his hand leaves it, then looks back at me, eyes dark. I find myself leaning back, not sure what's going on. "You're leaving for Ferelden," he says, and I nod.

"Yeah... first thing in the morning after Satinalia." His hands flex at his sides, then he tucks them into his sleeves, looking away. "Hey..." I murmur, worried. "Are you okay?" I ask, coming closer, reaching out to put my hand on his shoulder, and he winces.

"Lily... You _really_ shouldn't touch me. In fact, it's probably best if you back up a little," he says, voice strained, and I blink, backing off like he asks. After a moment, he takes a deep breath. "Thank you for the gifts; I really don't know what to say. They're incredibly generous. And if this really is Reaper's robe? Maker, that's like holding a piece of history. You know, he was said to have the Maker's own luck. He evaded the Templars for years and years before he was finally caught. I admired him. A lot of us did."

I swallow, tucking my hands into my armpits, watching as he simply carries on like he didn't just tell me to get the fuck away from him. "Uh... Well, I'm glad I can give you something that you find important. I can't think of anyone who deserves it more." There is a moment of tense silence, and then I take another breath. "So, uh, I'm just... gonna go pack, and... I'll see you... tomorrow or something, I guess. If you want. I... sorry I bothered you." I bow my head, turning for the door. I think I may have lost a friend here, and I'm not really sure what I did.

Just as I'm setting my hand to the latch, he speaks, and I pause.

"Lily, I-" There's a moment of silence, then his voice is miserable. "I'm sorry. You really don't deserve this, but I'm just having a hard time with it. It's not easy to have all of that living inside me with no outlet."

I swallow, a bitter smile curving my lips. Still this. "Tell me about it," I mutter, commiserating, and rest my head against the doorjamb. "Well, what can I do? I don't like this tension, feeling like I shouldn't be around you. We used to have an easy friendship, and I miss it." I turn around to face him, then lean against the door, crossing my arms under my breasts.

He pushes his hands through his hair, frustrated, and shakes his head. "I don't know. The things I think, the things I feel sometimes when I look at you- They're wrong. They're not me. The worst part is, sometimes I feel like I can't trust myself."

I blink. "Uh. That's not very reassuring..."

"No. No, it really isn't," he agrees.

"Uhhhh... what... I'm almost afraid to ask what you think you might do," I say, watching him, and he smiles, but it's tired and strained.

"It's a powerful thing, the desire that man has for you," he says softly. "So strong it's nearly overwhelming. I've never felt anything close to it, myself, and you _both_- I don't know how to stop."

I stare at him, mouth open, and have to make a conscious effort to close it. "Well... Uh. You- You're not actually in love with me," I say firmly, and he nods cautiously. "That's just echoes. But... I know you can't help it, so... Look, I have an idea. Back where I came from, women were constantly worried about the shape of their bodies, and so they would regularly go on these starvation binges to try and lose weight. One of the things I learned while reading up on the psychology of why these periods of starvation never really worked was that if you deny yourself something completely, then you crave it constantly, but if you let yourself have a little bit, every now and then, it's not so bad, and you can pretty much get by without it."

His brow furrows. "Er... I don't think I quite understand what you're getting at, because what it sounds like doesn't seem like a very good idea."

I smile and shake my head, pushing off the door. "No, no, dirty-minded bastard," I say playfully, and he relaxes a notch as I keep us on a fairly even keel for how our friendship usually runs. "You're trying to stay away from me completely, when we've been friends all this time, and you're telling me that this hasn't changed." I'm standing right in front of him now, and he's beginning to look nervous. "So hug me, dammit. You haven't hugged me in forever." I hold my arms out.

He takes a breath, surprised and anxious, but he raises his arms hesitantly and since he seems frozen on the moment, I just reach out and wrap my arms around his waist, same as always, resting my cheek against his chest. His heart is pounding, and I feel his hands shake as he slowly embraces me, the summery heat of his palms a soothing warmth against my back. I hum softly, having missed him tremendously during all this tension. Suddenly he squashes me fiercely, and I squeak as the air is crushed out of my lungs.

He buries his face in my shoulder, taking a deep breath, and I wonder if this was a good plan as his hand slides into my hair. I notice that our hips are pressed rather tightly together, with the way he's got his arms around me, and I'm just going to assume that it's his _belt_ right there... "Uhhh... Anders?"

He draws back, looking down at me, and the darkness of his gaze makes me blush hotly. "Sorry, sweetheart," he says, a little hoarse. "That theory doesn't seem to work too well."

I look up at him, at a loss, crushed by all of this. "I want my friend back," I tell him helplessly, and my heart breaks just a little bit more because it doesn't seem like that's going to be possible. I don't even realise I've started crying until he reaches up to brush the tears off my cheek with the back of a finger.

Slowly, he leans toward me and kisses me softly on the forehead. "Go," he says, swallowing hard, but he gives me a tremulous smile anyway. "You'll be gone for months in Ferelden. Maybe when you come back, I'll have myself sorted." I bow my head, grimacing, and feel his hand on my shoulder. "Don't blame yourself, Lily," he murmurs. "This is my doing. I'll find a way to fix it." I nod, and turn for the door, shutting it quietly behind me as I step out into the hallway again. Ponka stands up, looking up at me curiously, and I flee for my room.

Once we're inside and I've got the door shut, I kneel on the floor next to him and cry on his shoulder. He puts his arm around me and rubs my cheek with the side of his face, patient as always with my stormy emotions. Eventually I squall myself out, and he licks my face with his giant doggy tongue, making me laugh. He grins at me, then gently bumps me under the chin with his nose, making me lift my face a notch.

"Chin up, huh?" I ask him, and he nods. His eyes are far too knowing for a simple dog, and I reach out, cupping his jaw in my hand. "Thank you. I love you, boy, I hope you know that." I hug him around the neck, and he sits up straight and proud, tucking his head over my shoulder and wrapping his arm around me again. I rise after a moment and wash my face with a handful of water from my pitcher, then shake myself. I need to get back to work.

When I turn around, Ponka is watching me carefully, and I pause, looking down at him. He glances at the door, then back at me, and raises his eyebrows.

"What, you want out?" His brow furrows, and he dips his head, bumping my thigh. "Ohhh... honey, don't worry about me. I'm okay. Did you even eat dinner?" I ask, and he shakes his head. "Well for gods' sake, that's no good. You're a Warden! Don't you know that Wardens have to eat twice their weight in food every day just to remain conscious?" I tease him, crossing to the door and opening it for him. He barks happily, agreeing, and snorts, gumming at my leg in passing and making me giggle because it tickles. I push the door mostly closed, but don't let it latch, so he can get back in.

Turning back to Mahariel's trunk, I look inside, trying to take stock. There's a jumble of clothing next, and when I pull them out to straighten them up, I find, not to my surprise, that her elven physique was slighter than my own, but not by much. She was still curvy, just like me, but with one big difference: her hips were not as wide as mine. Not by a long stretch. She was probably a size ten all over, whereas I'm a twelve, and closer to fourteen on the bottom.

I remember Wynne needling Alistair about watching her walk, and suddenly his obsession with my hips makes perfect sense. It's one of the ways that I'm completely different from Mahariel: I've got more curves on my Swedish and Cherokee bones than she could ever have hoped to carry on her lighter elven ones, and those are the ones he likes best.

Gods, no wonder.

Like much of the clothing I've seen, Mahariel's are loose enough to accommodate a wide variety of body types, cinching down to fit by the expediency of strategically-placed lacing. Touching her clothes raises the small hairs on my neck, and I put them down as quickly as possible, unsure now whether I'll be able to use them.

Under the last tunic, I find the journal.

_Her_ journal.

The cover is worn at the edges, and one corner is creased where it was folded, but the tooling on the leather is still perfectly clear, full of swoops and fern shapes. Between and amongst the pattern, delicate curving lines trace along the edges, intertwining cleverly to form two names, depending on how you look at it. Tamlen and Lily.

I reach for it slowly, cautiously, but my pentacle stays cool, so I pick it up. Immediately, I am blinded by a brilliant purple flash, and I gasp _for air, running through the forest, sunlight and dappled green, laughing. His breath is just a moment behind me, and his arm comes around my waist, spinning me off my feet to tumble to the ground amidst a carpet of leaves on a hillside. My heart beats wildly in my breast as I laugh helplessly, looking up into the smiling face of Tamlen, oh, my heart, the sky in his eyes. "Heh. Caught you," he says, smug, and I can feel the blush heat my cheeks. He leans down, pressing his lips to mine firmly, making my breath catch as he moves against me, his hands down my sides and over my thighs, the surest touch that has me writhing against him._

He draws back, and I look up at him, fingers trailing across his cheek, tracing the curl at the corner of his mouth. He kisses my hand, catching it in his lightning-quick grasp, and I smile. "Ar ma'enansal,"_ he says, shrugging out of his pack, and I sit up. He opens it, looking inside, then catches me leaning over curiously and flashes me a grin. _"Inan'din." I have a present for you. Close your eyes.__

I growl impatiently, but I'm smiling as I sit back, closing my eyes and holding out my hands, palms flat. A curious weight fills them, and I look, finding the most beautiful book I have ever seen. I run my fingers over the cover in awe, turning it in my hands. "You made_ this?" I breathe, and he nods. The pages inside are a creamy yellow, fine paper he must have paid a small fortune for, trading with clans who brave the _shemlen_ towns. "It's so beautiful! And the paper..." I caress the page, feeling the perfect texture of it, not too smooth, not too thin, heavy enough to take water paints without warping, flat enough to take ink without spreading. "Tamlen..." I don't know what to say, how to express the height to which my heart takes wing and soars._

"Look," he says, flipping the cover closed again, and points to the pattern on it.

"What-?" His fingers trace through the lines as he speaks.

"I've been working with Ilen; I wanted to give you something... worthwhile." I realise the lines on the cover form my name. "Because I've decided... I mean... I think I'd like to speak with the Keeper about Bonding with the woman I love," he says. The lines resolve themselves into his name as well, and my eyes snap up to his, the shock coursing through me. Love? "I just need to get her permission first." I feel my breath coming faster, and clutch the book to my heart. Have I seen him with other women? No, no surely he means me. It has to be me. Who else? He laughs softly, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear, and the jolt of pleasure from the feel of his fingertips brushing along the edge of that sensitive organ has my eyes fluttering closed, my nipples straining against the leather of my bodice. "Ar dar'harel?"_ he murmurs, but he doesn't give me time to respond, his lips closing over mine in the next moment. _Am I so fearsome?__

I wrap my arms around his shoulders, and he lays me back against the ground, the book pressed tightly between us as he kisses me breathless, his strong, archer's hands sliding into my hair. "Nae_," I whisper, as he draws back, "_Nae, melana'din. Ar'din." No, never. Not to me._ His fingertips dance along the lines of my _vallaslin_, over my cheekbone and down to the corner of my jaw, a familiar pattern that he has traced so many times it makes me sigh softly with desire. "Tamlen... _Emma lath..." My love,_ I whisper, the words sweet as summer rain in my mouth as he leans in to kiss the hollow of my throat, and I arch,_ blinded by a flash of white light, rocking backward with a cry of surprise and agony as a migraine cleaves through my head. The book leaves my hands and I automatically reach for it, trying to snatch it back. "Lily! Lily, are you okay?" Alistair's face swims into view, fear and worry writ plainly across it, and I blink, trying to focus.

_"Dar'an Tamlen? Dar'su? Ar'in shem durgen'arla?" _ I babble, panicked and confused as my gaze flies about the shapes of this unfamiliar room, trying to make sense of it all. _"Nae! Nae! Ar melava dar'arla! Tu'su? Tu'su? Nae!"_

Where's Tamlen? What's going on? Why am I in some stone human house? No! No! I was home! What happened? What happened? No!

"Tamlen!" I wail, as though I could call him back by sheer will alone, then dissolve into tears, curling at the waist, because I remember. I remember that the mirror ate him. He's gone. He's not with me anymore, and I'll never get him back. _"Nae..."_ I moan, rocking back and forth. _"Nae, emma lath... eluvian'din..."_ I whisper, voice choked and full of tears. _"Mahviren'din..."_ It's too late, far too late, to pull him back. _No, my love... not the mirror... No more tomorrows..._

Oh, but Creators, I need a drink. Maybe seven of them. Alistair's hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and I feel nothing but resentment toward my fellow Warden for such intrusion. How dare he witness this breaking again. He shouldn't have seen it the first time, except that I was too weak after losing so much at once, and there were only the two of us for a time. I wish he would just go. He's the worst possible company right now. I need Zev; Creators, where is he? Why has he left me alone with _Alistair_? The liquor's no good for me, I know, I know. He's right: far better to drown my sorrows in his golden eyes.

_"Ar isala'din ma'dar ena sahlin,_ Alistair!" I snap, then growl, batting him away. Sodding _shemlen_ with their silly little 'marriages' think they understand about Bonding, as though the weight of time could possibly mean anything to them. _I don't need you to be here right now._

There is silence while I try to master myself, the aching hole of Tamlen's loss a pain I'd managed to overlook for a time, until I picked up the journal again.

Wait... but... I always carry the journal.

Wait... no... I've never seen it until just now.

I blink, and suddenly the fog clears from my eyes, like waking up. Gasping, I put my hands on the floor as a series of hard shudders rock me. I whimper softly as it subsides, and then my stomach turns. Raising my head, I look around wildly, then scramble off the floor, making it to my washstand just in time to be sick in the basin, and moan piteously in between waves, knowing there's another coming for me.

The only thing I hate more than crying is barfing.

My hands tremble as the nausea finally abates; I clean up myself and the basin, dumping everything into the bushes out the window and wash my mouth out with some wine. Bracing myself on the sill with both hands, I take a couple of steadying breaths before turning around again. Alistair is watching me like I might be rabid, wary and deeply unsettled. "Mahariel?" he asks cautiously, a note of fear in his voice as I wobble over to the bed and sit down, then fall over sideways, arm wrapped around my stomach.

My head is killing me. If I try to talk, I might retch again. Looking up at him, I reach out, and after a moment, he moves toward me, sitting on the other side of the bed. When he hesitates to take my hand, I haul myself up and crawl over to him, into his lap. The tension flows out of him as he wraps his arms around me, and I close my eyes, pressing my ear to his heart. I wind my arms around his waist, and as he kisses my forehead, the heat of his embrace and the softness of his lips chase away the pain and nausea. "What happened?" I ask, my voice tiny, because I really don't want to know the answer, and his arms tighten around me, tucking me under his chin protectively.

"I heard you from the hallway," he says, and I feel him shifting as he kicks off his boots. "You were moaning, and it wasn't... right. I was worried, so I came in, and you were kneeling in front of the trunk. You had the book in your hands, staring at the ceiling with your eyes and skin glowing, and one of your amulets as well. The room was so thick with magic I could _taste_ it, it hurt to _breathe_ - and Lily, that's so much power at once; it could have torn the Veil - so I pushed through a Cleanse. The light went out, I took the book..." He takes a deep breath, and his voice has a note of grimness. "And you started speaking Elvish. You sounded, _acted_, exactly like her."

"I was, for a second there," I whisper, my hand sliding up his chest to curl over his shoulder. "I didn't remember me at all."

He gets incredibly tense, clutching me like I might disappear, though he doesn't smoosh me so much as just become hard as steel. "I don't want that to happen," he implores, voice practically strangled, and I feel his throat flexing as he swallows hard.

There's nothing I can say, because there's no reassurance to be had. I clearly won't have any control over it if it does happen. I won't even know it's happened. I rub my cheek against his chest, tears burning at the backs of my eyes. "Don't let go," I whisper, curling closer, and he shakes his head.

"Never," he promises, and I shiver as he turns us, pulling me under the blankets with him. Reaching behind him, he turns down the lamp, and I settle gratefully in the protective weight of his arms, clinging tightly. I hope the Fates let him keep that promise.

"Alistair?" I ask, a few minutes later, whispering in case he's already asleep.

"Hmm?" The soft rumble under my ear is barely audible.

"I really hate magic sometimes," I confess.

He gives me a squeeze, running his fingers through my hair, and sighs softly, kissing my forehead. "Me too, love. Me too."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

After breakfast, Alistair backs me against the wall in the courtyard and kisses me thoroughly, leaving me breathless and blinking up at him when he draws back, and the smug smirk on his face makes me blush. "I'll be gone today," he says, rubbing his nose alongside mine, breath washing across my cheek. "I have to get Marco set up with the guard and book our passage on a courier ship. It won't be cheap."

This place runs about as close to the line as I do. Now that I know it, I'm determined to do something about it. When we get back from Ferelden, I'm going to start selling stuff.

I turn my face, the corner of my mouth brushing against the corner of his. "I've got a box full of gems; we could trade a few, or all of them. I'll bring them. We'll be fine."

"Hmm... Well that's one less worry then," he says, lower lip dragging along mine, and I close my eyes, kissing him again.

"Okay. See you at dinner?"

"I hope so. That's the plan, anyway." He stands up, his hands dropping from the wall, and gives my hips a squeeze before stepping back.

I still have to tell him about Satinalia, and time is ticking, but things keep happening, and it's just never a good time. Dammit. By the time there's a moment, it's going to be a bomb.

Reaching up, I cup his cheek before he turns. "Hey. Everything's hectic, and there aren't enough hours in the day, but I _really_ need for us to carve out some time because I have to talk to you."

He pauses, studying me carefully, then nods. "Okay. Tonight," he promises, his palm to my cheek, and gently bumps his forehead against mine. "If nowhere else, you'll have me when we go to bed." I feel the smile on his mouth as he kisses me, and I know he said it that way on purpose. He chuckles at my blush as he pulls back, and I bite my lip, looking up at him, making him grin as he turns away.

There. Now I can't weasel out of it, either.

I'm late to lunch, but I get another cradle cut out and set up to dry, and put the rockers on the first one. After lunch, I work my ass off to get the third one finished, because they have to be ready tomorrow, and I can hear the Wardens coming in just as I'm setting the final clamps. Damn, I'm gonna be late. I have to wash up, though, there's no getting around it. I need to return to the shop before I go to bed and varnish them, otherwise they'll never be dry enough for the ladies to take tomorrow.

My shoulders and neck are beginning to ache, and I know I'm going to be stiff in the morning, which is bad, because I still have things I need to do. When I get back to my room, I find a little scrap of paper in the basin on the washstand, inked with Alistair's graceful and precise cursive hand. _I brought dinner to the office. I don't care that you're grubby. Come eat with me?_

I smile. How can I say no to that? But I'm going to wash up a bit whether he likes it or not. I'll just be quick about it. I'm keenly aware of the fact that he's sitting there waiting for me; I was so focused on my work that I didn't have any time to think about what I'm going to say, so it's gonna be all improv.

I always get myself into trouble when I improvise.

I scrub myself down really quickly, thinking furiously, and coming up with nothing. How do I even open this conversation? Oh gods, too late, out of time.

My wet feet leave prints about six feet out of my doorway as I pad down the hall to Alistair's office. Unless it's too cold or I have work to do, I'm not wearing shoes. If I could go around barefoot all the time, I would.

Alistair's door is ajar, and I push it open a little more to see him sitting at his desk, head bent over his ledger, fingers tapping on the wood as he keeps track of the figures in his head. People want to scoff at counting on your fingers, but the way Alistair does it, he may as well be his own abacus. I've seen him balance the books, adding up a page-long column of figures - some of them into the quadruple digits, both positives and negatives - quicker than I could've punched it into a calculator, and get the correct answer.

The first time I saw him do it, I just watched, mystified. He asked me how I'd do it, and when I showed him, he said I'm doing it the hard way. He tried to explain his system, and I understand the theory behind it, but my brain slips gear when I try to do it, myself. It's like trying to learn a foreign language, almost. Of course, I felt that way about geometry after having taken algebra the year before.

I'm stalling.

_Get your big girl panties on and get in there._

"You're staring," he murmurs, smiling, not looking up, and I feel the bush heat my cheeks.

"Hmh. Maybe I just like to look," I say, coming in and closing the door behind me.

He scratches a total in at the bottom of the page, then sets the book aside. When he looks up at me, his brow furrows with worry. "What's wrong?"

I wince, squeezing my eyes shut, and stop myself just shy of stamping my foot. "I hate my face," I declare querulously, and sit down in the chair across from him.

He blinks. "What? Why?"

I frown, hesitating, and he grabs the tray from the table behind him, setting it between us. "Because it shows to much, which makes you ask questions before I'm ready to answer them."

"I'm sorry," he says, looking kind of guilty. "I don't mean to make you feel put on the spot."

"Don't be sorry. It keeps me honest," I sigh, helping him take covers off dishes. "There are things I would just never say, otherwise... and that's one thing that hasn't changed at all."

He nods, a 'fair enough' look on his face as he hands me a dish and then begins filling his own. There's a silence while we pile our plates, and his voice is softly strained when he speaks next, just throwing a conversational brick at me. "Why do you do that? Why do you hide from me? Do I frighten you?"

"No..." I tell him, shaking my head, and I can feel my shoulders slump. "You're coming at it from the wrong direction. I'm not hiding from you. You can be scary, but you don't scare _me_. It's got more to do with old survival habits." I eat a piece of spiced mutton to buy myself some time while I try to figure out how to tell him some of the things that only Zevran and Anders know.

"I spent a great deal of my life needing to keep my mouth shut about what I wanted to do, if I was going to be able to do it. If I wanted to be alone, I couldn't just say, 'hey, I need some time to myself,' no, that statement had to be justified," I tell him, then tick off on my fingers all the questions I'd have to answer. "Why did I need it? Was I trying to say that their company wasn't good enough? What am I implying? Is there something I'm hiding? Why would I need to be _alone_? What am I doing in there while I'm by myself that I don't want them to see?"

The look of confused horror on his face is eloquent, and I nod. "Yep. Whereas if I simply walked into the other room, there were no problems. And that's just the simple stuff, the daily things. I'm sure you can imagine how dangerous saying I'd like to go out with a friend could get." His eyes widen a bit as he thinks about that, and then he is patently unimpressed with whomever would do that sort of thing to me, in sympathy. "So, it's not like I set out, thinking, 'oh, I'm just not going to tell Alistair', it's just that I'm used to not saying anything at all to anyone. I have to actually stop and remember, make a conscious effort to tell people what I'm doing and where I'm going." I take another breath and let it out slowly, poking my couscous around on my plate with my fork. "Uh... Conveniently, that brings me to my next point: the thing I need to tell you. I'm going to be meeting with him on Satinalia."

There's no question who I'm talking about. I caught him with his mouth full, and watch suspicion, worry, fear, and resignation flit across his face in the blink of an eye, and then he nods. "Right... So... that's already set, then, I take it?"

I nod, putting my hand over his. "I won't be gone more than an hour or so, and part of that will be travel time. I think he should know that I'm leaving Antiva, don't you?"

He presses his lips together, studying me for a moment. "What if he tries to stop you?" he asks quietly, and I blink.

That thought had never even crossed my mind. Alistair nods to himself, as though I've just confirmed a suspicion, and takes advantage of my momentary silence to demolish an entire potato. I sigh, picking my way through some more of the mutton. "I don't think that's going to happen, honestly. He'd have to do it by force, and he's not stupid; surely he knows that kind of move would make me hate him." Alistair eyes me, unconvinced, and I shrug awkwardly. "Well, it's not like I can take a guard with me. But... I could take Ponka. If I tell him what's going on, he'll protect me. Then I won't be walking around in the dark by myself."

His brow furrows and he looks at me from the sides of his eyes. "Wait, in the dark? You're going at night?"

I shift uncomfortably. "Uh... Sort of...? The meeting is at sunset; not a lot of times of day can be specified easily in Elvish. So... I'll be back after dark."

He pushes his empty plate aside and sits back. "And then?"

"Then I come home and eat, make sure I've got everything packed, and go to bed with you because we've got to catch a boat on the morning tide," I say, as though that should be obvious, because, dammit, it should. "What do you think, that I'm going to tell you yes, I'll go to Ferelden, and yes, we can try to have a child, and then just abandon you the moment I see Zevran next?" I ask, incredulous, and he turns red.

"Er... Nooo..." he says, but it's in a 'well when you put it that way' tone and he doesn't look up.

I growl softly, exasperated. Rising from my chair, I circle the desk and unceremoniously plop myself down in his lap. "You are _such_ a nut, you know that?" I ask him conversationally, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and he closes his eyes, resting his forehead against my shoulder as his arm automatically rises to circle my waist. "It's just an errand, honey... honestly."

"I... I'm sorry. I suppose it's just the way you presented it... I expected bad news."

I run my fingers through his hair and hum softly. "It's the whole 'we need to talk' thing, isn't it. Well... I'm just trying to make sure that I don't give myself too much wiggle room, because I will take it, and I'll go off without telling anyone anything. So... I made sure I couldn't, by telling you this morning that we needed to talk. I wanted you to pin me down if I didn't say something."

He pauses, and then his voice is dark when he responds. "You wanted me to pin you, huh?" he asks, making my breath catch and my heart take wing.

"Oh- Oh honey... any time you want," I murmur, cupping his cheek in my hand, and kiss him passionately.

He growls possessively, pulling me flush against him and dominating the kiss, making me moan softly and arch toward him. "I want. Now," he says, voice husky in my ear, and I shudder.

"I'm still grubby-" I protest, but he's already in motion, carrying me toward his room with single-minded determination, and my stomach is full of birds.

"Don't care," he mumbles, kissing his way along my neck, and I wrap my legs tightly around his waist so he can have a hand free to open the door. He sets me down and strips me out of my pants so fast I barely have time to take a breath, let alone figure out how to stand up straight, before his face is buried between my thighs. I moan, grateful for the solid weight of the door behind me and his hands at my hips keeping me steady. He knows now what I sound like when I'm on the edge of release, and pulls back just a moment before, leaving me standing there wobble-legged and whimpering.

Too impatient to free us of our clothing entirely, he simply unlaces his breeches enough to bare himself, then lifts me up and takes me right there against the door, filling me so quickly that I cannot draw breath for the fire that consumes me almost at once, just from the heat and the weight of him within me. He groans as I ripple around him, arched and shuddering with the waves that wash over me again and again, and all that before he even really begins to _move_.

He nails me to the wall so hard and so fast that I've got stars in my eyes before he's even half done, and I lose track of how many times he pulls me over the edge, lost in a flurry of hot hands and searing kisses, panting breath and fumbled grappling, particularly as I begin to lose my grip on him with the weakness of too many climaxes settling into my muscles.

At some point I become aware that I sound like I'm sobbing hysterically, but I can't stop myself; it's the only sound I'm capable of making. He doesn't slack his brutal pace, not for an instant, not until I, gasping and straining, completely mad in my passion, actually scream for him as a wicked and overwhelming fire consumes me completely, setting my fingertips, my toes, my hair ablaze. He moans brokenly in my ear, slowing to a sinuous roll then, hand at the small of my back rocking me against him. "Lily," he whispers, "My Lily." He's never said this before, and I suddenly understand what this was about.

I said I wouldn't leave him, reminded him that I agreed to have his baby.

More importantly, I think, that I wouldn't leave him for Zevran.

Alistair collapses against me, mashing me to the door, both of us breathless and shaking, and then his knees give way, and he drops to the floor, me sliding down with him. He buries his face in my neck, clutching me tightly, and I run my fingers through his hair. "My Alistair," I whisper back, also a first, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath, pulling me closer. My head tips back as he presses a kiss to my throat, wrapping me tightly in his arms.

Why does everything I do just feel like digging myself a deeper grave?

_Don't look back._

I barely remember to go back to the shop, after all that, but Alistair has things he has to do, too, which makes it easier to part from him for a time. The night is spent in his bed, where I discover that he was apparently not finished with me, taking everything so slow that I go hoarse from moaning, and I end up having to wash up on my knees because my legs don't work. Dawn comes too soon, our last day before Satinalia. I lose the morning to cutting out the chess blocks and boards, and then cut a couple of cribbage boards as well, just for good measure. I still have an hour before lunch, so I go through everything, and set myself up a small travelling carving kit, sealing up pots of my favourite varnishes and paints, selecting a few good brushes, organising a collection of my smaller tools, and tucking them all in a small slide-topped box.

After lunch, Anders comes around to the shop to fetch me, and I meet with a series of people who come to take away the chairs, trunks, and cradles, which eats up the rest of the afternoon as we walk back and forth endlessly with one piece of furniture or another, and I speak with the confused people who are nevertheless thrilled to receive them. It's a burden off my heart to have that finished, and I determine that I'll make my sacrifice to Pheobus Apollo while I'm in Ferelden. We're going to Redcliffe, right? I could do something for the chantry there.

Right.

Tick, tick, tick.

Back in my room, I pack my armour and daggers - not Mahariel's, but _mine_ - because... you never know. And I'd rather have them and not need them, than need them and not have them. I pack the box of gems and my jewellery, and all my woodworking supplies. I pack a few of the dresses Lels made, just in case I have to make some kind of official appearance somewhere, several pairs of jeans and socks, an extra pair of boots and several tunics, a couple of blankets (mostly for padding, but never pack anything that won't be useful), Mahariel's journal and mine, and a whole host of odds and ends that seem like they might be helpful.

When the trunk is finally full enough that it simply can't hold anything else, I close it up and then set about cleaning up the giant mess I made while I was packing, which takes me right up to dinner, and the day is gone. Alistair doesn't straggle in until after I've fallen asleep in his bed, and the only reason I even wake is because I'm suddenly warm.

Satinalia dawns grey and misty, and everyone is wearing masks of some sort, all day long. I spend the morning making sure that my portion of the shop is squared away. Leliana insists on taking me out for lunch into the throngs of brightly dressed people, so I nervously don the dress and mask Zevran sent me, and Lels declares me gorgeous. I certainly draw a lot of looks, but the mask allows me enough anonymity that I don't feel particularly singled out.

We get lost in the crowds, people-watching, and it's actually a lot of fun, the only time I've ever really felt okay being in a large group of people. Something to do with the mask, I guess, makes me feel bolder. We return to the base as the day grows old, and I fetch Ponka. Lels is loath to let me go out on my own, so I finally agree to meet her at a small bistro nearby, that way I'm not walking all the way back on my own.

And so I find myself standing in the little grotto, now grown chill and damp. The chalk is long since erased from the wall, of course, but I run my fingers over it anyway. Pacing back and forth for a time, I chafe at my arms, trying to convince myself it's not too cold, when a shadow suddenly detaches itself from the wall, resolving itself into the shape of a man wearing a fox mask, pale hair pulled back from his face, golden eyes flashing in the semi-dark.

My first instinct is to press myself to him and kiss him thoroughly, to do just as Alistair fears and abandon everything to drown myself in his arms. I swallow thickly, my fingers flexing at my sides, the strength of the pull toward him shocking me with its sudden intensity, despite how I thought I had braced myself.

_"Cara,"_ he murmurs, coming closer, and I take a deep breath as the urge to go to him becomes nearly overwhelming.

_The press of his lips to my throat-_

The sudden sense-memory steals my breath. "Oh gods," I say, my voice coming out more whimper than anything else, then clear my throat. What's _wrong_ with me? We've been over this. We can't have that. "D-don't. Just- Just stay over there," I plead, holding my hands out to ward him off, and he stops, just out of arms' reach. My heart pounds in my chest, urging me, begging me to close the distance, whispering that this is where I belong, that everything else is just a mockery. I close my eyes, trying to master myself, trying to get a grip, and take a step backward.

"Hmmm... You fear me now, as well?" he asks, voice flat, and I shake my head emphatically.

"No, no never. I just- I can't trust myself, apparently. So- So please." I clear my throat again, taking a shaking breath, pulling my hands back away from him before I do something stupid. "There are things I need to tell you, and something I need to give you," I say, getting myself back on track, and finally dare to look at him again. He's just standing there, hands at his sides, watching me, and it's breaking my heart just forcing myself to stand still. I need to breathe. One thing at a time. "F-first, here," I say, digging the scrollcase out of my bag. He holds out his hand, and I pass it over, snatching my fingers back before I touch him. "It- It's a game."

"A game," he echoes, confused, and I nod. Okay. Conversation, right. I can do this. One breath at a time.

"I made it; it's from my homeland, and... it's really important to me that you have it. I think once you take a look at it, you'll see why. I made it portable and silenced the pieces, because I suspect you'll want to take it with you places. Oh-" I dig in my bag again and pull out the frame. "But just in case you decide you want to set it up as an actual board, I made a frame for it," I say, handing him the pieces. His fingers brush mine, as I'm not being as careful this time, sending a wave of heat up my arm, pinking my cheeks - not that he can see them beneath the mask, but I can see the knowing look in his eye - and my breath stutters.

Something so simple: the touch of a hand. Not so, now.

_-sliding up the insides of my thighs, trails of heat from his nimble fingers-_

"Mh-" I start, inarticulate, and press my knuckles to my mouth. My hands are shaking.

_Steady now. There's still more to tell him._

"S-so... Uh- I'm- I'm leaving Antiva."

He cocks his head, and the look in his eye is positively dangerous. "Oh?" he asks, the soft whiskey burr of his voice tugging strings I can't afford to have. "Where are you going? And why?"

"Ferelden... Teagan sent us a letter, wants answers as to why he heard that a retainer of his had perished here at a party with nobles, and then that Alistair had a house guest matching that description. Surely you can see how a letter would never do... but I don't want to go, either. I don't want to see places we went during the Blight. Then again... I used Teagan's name, and I have to answer for that, and the only way I can do it is in person. He'll never understand, otherwise, and... my situation is so strange, I don't know if he'll understand even with me there."

There is a pause, and then he tips his chin up, a nod of understanding. "Mh. When?"

I swallow. "On the morning tide."

He stares at me for a long moment, and I shift, my hands plucking at my skirt in an effort to still them from reaching out. I can do this; I just need to breathe.

_Golden eyes, sparking in the uncertain light of sunrise, laughing and crinkled at the corners as he wraps his arms around my waist-_

And not be thinking about things like that. I blink, shaking my head a little, trying to stop the flood.

"There is more. I can see it trembling on your tongue," he says softly, and I blink again, but I know what he means. I've been struggling with it, it's true. I didn't know whether I should tell him, but it's impossible for me to keep anything from him, even now.

"He- He asked me to have a child," I confess, then take a frightened breath. "I said yes."

He begins to pace, looking at me, and I feel like I'm watching an unchained predator. I am, really... I just don't normally see him in that light. "This should be a joy to you, and yet you are pained by it," he murmurs at last, and I bow my head.

_That sweet-faced, innocent child, a child that can never be-_

"I want it. I want to have a child. And he'd be a good father, I know it. But-" I swallow again, and the tears fall straight out of my eyes to the floor.

"I cannot _give_ you that, _moglie mia_," he murmurs, and I can hear the pain in his voice, how the admission costs him.

"I _know_!" I wail, the pain suddenly flooding me, choking me, drowning me, and I burst into tears. I untie the mask, pulling it off impatiently, covering my face with one hand and turning away from him. "I have everything, everything; it's perfect... except that he's standing in your place."

"Do you not love him?" he asks softly, his voice closer now, and my shoulders hunch.

"I do... I do," I admit, shaking my head miserably. "But he's not _you_. The... that thing that happens between us... the way it- your voice- and when you touch me- I'm sorry- This doesn't make it easier."

"No," he murmurs, just a breath behind me his voice a low purr in my ear, and I shiver. "What would make it easier, _cara_? Shall you abandon all to come with me? Will you slip away during the nights to meet me? Are you no longer so concerned with being faithful? Tell me what I can give you, _amora_, that would not strip you of everything else, and I will do this thing."

I flinch, strangling on it, the words burning me again, because there is nothing. I know there's nothing. I curl in on myself, grabbing my own shoulders because all I want in all the world is to turn around, just turn around and let him fold me in his embrace and tell me that everything will be okay, that he can fix it, that it doesn't have to be like this. And he can't. And I can't.

"Zev-" I swallow a sob, gagging on it. "I'm only here because of you," I whisper. "Pulled so far, across an impossible divide... The gods gave us this, they gave me to you, they let me have you, and we can't even keep it. It's wrong. I feel it in my bones, every day I'm not with you, no matter how I ignore it, but there's nothing to be done. And now... Zev, he's going to ask me to be his wife. I know it. I can feel it in him." The heat of his body radiates against my back, and his hands rise to frame my upper arms, sliding toward my shoulders. I expect this to heighten the riot of emotion in me, but instead, it spreads a calm in its wake, a deep peace I remember so well it breaks my heart.

"And what will you tell him?" he asks, his breath a hot wave over the slope of my shoulder.

"I can't say yes; I'm already married," I whisper brokenly, then whimper as his kiss presses so softly to the side of my neck.

"You can," he says, lips brushing my skin as his hands descend my back to rest at my waist. "You publicly denied me," he reminds me, and my head tilts to the side of its own accord as his mouth travels higher, toward my ear. Even now, even with everything laying between us and the weight of all that I have laid at Alistair's feet, I cannot help the way my body reacts to him. I lean back, my eyes closing, as his hands slide forward to splay across my belly. "Do it. Do all of it. Deny yourself nothing, _cara mia_. No matter where you go, no matter the titles you are given or the name by which you are called, you are my wife, as long as I draw breath. My life is yours."

"Even if I can't share it." I sob suddenly, and he holds me tightly, burying his face in my shoulder as I grit my teeth, trying to get a grip again. "I wish we'd never left the ship. We should have turned around, we should have never left the island, I wish _you had come to me_. But instead, the one thing in all the worlds that is supposed to be right, that's supposed to be _ours_-" I am cut off by his hand curling over my mouth, silencing me.

"Shhh- _cara..._" His voice is strained, and I could swear I can feel a pearl of wetness at the edge of my hairline as he presses his cheek to my neck. "You wear my mark upon your skin," he whispers, fingertips caressing the lines that he knows without looking, even only having seen them just a few times. "We draw the same breath, share the same heartbeat. I am yours, and you are mine. It cannot be taken from us; we would have to give it up freely, and that, we cannot do. We are still alive, Lily _mia_." His hand leaves my mouth, trailing along my jaw as he speaks, and he plunges his fingers into my hair, grabbing a tight but gentle fistful, making me gasp and sway against him. "So live, and love well, and feel passion, and love your life, because it is all I can give you, _amora_. No matter what more we might wish for," he murmurs, pressing a hot kiss to the place just behind my ear.

I sway again, but he is drawing back, stepping away from me, and I see his profile as he raises the mask to his face and reties it, the shape of his stomach and the sway of his back. I want to touch him, to fall on my knees in front of him and lick the line of his hip. For a moment, that impulse is so palpable I can taste it, remember the texture of his skin against my lips, and I have to put my hand out to the wall to stop myself from falling. "Oh gods," I whisper, and he looks up. "I don't know if I have the strength to keep walking away from you," I confess without meaning to, the words just falling from my mouth. "Everything within me screams your name."

He looks at me for a long moment, then crosses to me swiftly, sending my heart in my throat as his hand curls around the back of my neck, the other pulling his mask up. He kisses me passionately, thoroughly, with so much heat it sears my heart and quells the riot within me completely. I am breathless as he pulls away again, still struggling to open my eyes when he growls. "You are not alone in this torment!" he whispers fiercely.

By the time I look up, he is gone.


	32. Native Alien

_A/N: Real life is still kicking my ass... Sorry about the delay. There may be more of them, before this is over, but my currently totally optimistic goal is to have this finished by the end of the August. I've got a lot of letters of concern for what may happen if I get caught up in the purge, here. Fortunately, this is not my only platform; you can find me publishing under this name at AO3 and Dreamwidth as well. :) And now, to continue..._

It's not until the boat is leaving the dock that I even stop to consider whether physical distance is going to be a problem for Zevran and me.

Just like every other time I've been on a boat, I stand at the back as it leaves the harbour, watching the wake, the curls of white coming off the sides and swirling away as the water churns behind us. The wind is cold and whips at my face, but still I stand there, until the pier disappears, until a ripple of the land hides Antiva City from view, and then I turn, fingers frozen on the edge of my cloak.

We're crossing the ocean on a schooner. There's only one other passenger, a messenger, whom I don't really see much of. Once the sails are up and she's caught a good wind, this ship fairly flies across the water. Watching the coast of Antiva rapidly disappear across the horizon, I understand why it's only going to take us a month to get there. Alistair and I apparently paid enough to get a room by ourselves, a luxury only two others on the ship are afforded: the captain and the first mate. Everyone else sleeps in a common area - and there are a total of eight people on the ship - despite the fact that there's another private cabin standing empty.

The days blur one into the next as I sit on the deck and whittle, or sit in the cabin and whittle, or read, or sleep, doing nothing, nothing, nothing. I hate travelling. But on the nights when it's clear, there are so many stars that it seems like I could just fall into the sky, and I realise that I've suddenly understood the dwarven point of view. The crew are quiet but personable, and kind to Ponka, and when I make a deck of cards for us, they take to rummy in an instant. They make the leap to gin by the time we play the third game, and never look back. It's cut-throat, and a serious challenge. People play so close to the breast.

I carve a chess set for Teagan, winter and summer courts. The winter court are a dark golden brown, wrapped in furs and severe. Their warriors all carry axes - some dual wield, some two-handed, some axe and shield. Their mages wear fur-lined hoods and robes, their knights ride wolves. The queen is haughty, the king dominating, and their castle has tall, peaked roofs. The summer court are a warm honey, loose-limbed and dressed like the gypsies I'd see at summer SCA events. Their warriors carry staves and bows, their mages have a druidic feel, and the knights sit astride some Clydesdales. The queen is round-bellied and smiling, happily pregnant, but she's got a knife strapped to her thigh, and the hilt of another protruding from the top of her boot. The king is tall and smirking with good, wry humour, and their rooks are archways with climbing ivy and roses.

And so I spend the month, trying not to think about all the deathly fathoms beneath me, and relieved more and more with every passing day that the distance doesn't wrench something frightening and vital between Zevran and me. On darker days, during the longest nights, I wait for it with a sense of quiet dread, but nothing scary ever happens. Nothing overt, nothing sudden, nothing I can really put my finger on, but the further we get from Antiva, the more I can feel a hollow space opening behind my heart, like slowly unspooling a thread behind me. However... the more it plays out, the less it weighs. Physical distance makes it easier for me to shrug off the heavy wrongness between him and me, and it's a relief that allows me some breathing room.

_Just breathe._

When we finally turn in for the night, Alistair is so self-conscious about what kind of noise we make that it takes us hours, because he stops every time my voice rises above a whisper. For a whole month. Maddening. Maddening!

A smaller boat rides closer to the water, and the feeling of being lost in extremely hostile territory keeps me up at night. The sense of the water beneath my feet is much more acute. I've been on a sailboat off the coast before, but that's nothing compared to the open ocean. I am well and truly terrified. When we ride through a few squalls, I have panic attacks that I barely make it through with grace.

We finally sight land late in the afternoon with a storm on our tails.

"Was going to push through to Amaranthine tonight," the first mate tells Alistair, when he ducks belowdecks, nearly soaked to the bone. "But it's too risky. Got to port in Denerim and ride it out."

To my eyes, the lights of Denerim are careening wildly through the night sky as we hurtle toward it on a storm wind, and I cannot bear to look, hiding in our cabin and praying to Poseidon to let us dock safely.

Once we're moored, the ship pitches and yaws sickeningly. "If you get off here, you'll have to take your trunks," the captain says, "I can't guarantee we'll still be here when you come back. I intend to leave for Amaranthine the moment the weather clears enough."

Alistair and I look at each other. "It's land. I want off," I tell him, pleading, and he nods.

"Right. Let's go."

There are no wagons at the docks in this weather, at this hour, of course, and we've got two big trunks. Mine's too heavy for me to manage on my own, and Alistair's, there's just no way. Our cloaks whip about us as Alistair bids farewell to the crew, and I stand there looking up at the dark hulk of walled and castled city, completely unfamiliar territory. "Isn't The Pearl around here somewhere?" I shout to be heard over the storm.

Alistair looks at me, hair plastered to his head by the rain, half incredulous. "You want to go to The Pearl?" he asks, and I shrug.

"I don't really care! Warm and dry is good!"

"Right!"

"What about the trunks?"

He just shakes his head as he ties a rope around his trunk and stands it up on its end, the dock swaying crazily under our feet, then hauls it up onto his back while I watch, shocked. Bending down, he picks up one end of my trunk, and I hasten to grab the other. I have to go first up the ramp to the main dock, making him push all the burden of both our trunks for a way, and he doesn't slow in the slightest. I know he's strong, but this just freaks me the fuck out. All of his trunk and half of mine... whoof. We trudge through the city, Ponka following after us with his head bent against the storm, and it seems like all the roads are nothing but uphill. I'm inclined, at first, to carry my fair share of the burden, walking next to Alistair, but after a while, he stops and makes me get in front, and I have to admit, I feel like my shoulders are going to dislocate, so I don't argue. Alistair steers me to a small, cobbled street where warm lamplight shines through a small window in a green door, the sign above it proclaiming the place to be _The Bramble and Rose_.

I push open the door, exhausted and shaking both from the cold and the effort of carrying just my half of the trunk. Alistair follows behind me, ducking under the lintel, the chest on his back barely fitting through the door. We rain on the flagstones, and Alistair slowly leans back, letting the trunk down off his shoulder. I set my end of the trunk down gratefully, and find that I can't uncurl my fingers, frozen stiff from being clenched so tightly around the strap in the freezing Ferelden rain. Ponka sneezes, then comes to stand by me as I struggle with my hands, breathing on them and licking at them until I can at least get them unhooked from the handle. It's gross, but I'm grateful.

A tired looking woman, with her greying brown hair falling out of a messy bun, hustles up to us. "Oh you poor dears, you're soaked! Let me take your cloaks and come sit by the fire," she clucks, taking our water-logged garments and hanging them up on pegs near the hearth. Alistair and I go drip over there instead, Ponka steaming with his head hanging, while she continues to bustle about. We agree to hot food, a dry bed, and a warm bath, which costs us fifteen silver pieces, plus another for Ponka. I'm surprised when I hear the price, but I don't say a word because Alistair is the one with the purse, and he's making the arrangements.

Servants of the house collect our cloaks and trunks, leading the way, and when we get to our room, it makes more sense. The front is a small living area, with a couch, a couple of chairs, a fireplace, a coffee table, and a writing desk with a chair at it in one corner. Through the door in the opposite wall is the bedroom, with a tall, canopy bed, and it's plush, almost as plush as the mattresses I slept on back home. There is a gorgeous view of the stormy harbour, through the small pane of ripply glass in a door that faces the ocean, though it's currently shut tight against the storm. Off the side of the bedroom, there is a bathroom with indoor plumbing, such as it is. There's a drop-chute for water from a cistern on the roof, and a fire rune in the bottom of a tub that is built to resemble a natural rock pool.

Ponka immediately flops down on the hearth and commences snoring. Alistair finishes talking with the proprietress, making arrangements for our food, then joins me at the balcony door, looking out at the sea. Now that I've stopped walking, I can feel the sway of the ocean still in me. I can go from land to ocean just fine, but put me back on land and I'm lost for days, physically. I can feel how tired he is in the set of his shoulders as he hugs me from behind, and I lay my head back against his chest, hands curled upon my breast because they hurt like hell.

"When that woman said fifteen silver pieces, I thought you were mad. Scandalous! That's some serious coin for just a room and a meal."

"It's not just a simple dinner and bed, though, is it," he murmurs against my hair. "You've never been here before, and Ferelden is my home. I wanted your first impression of it to be right, because so many people scoff at it, particularly in Antiva. Do you know they call it 'the land of dogs'? As though there's nothing else worthwhile or remarkable in the whole country."

I smile. "Well, so far it looks like where I come from, so it's a good start."

He chuckles, then pauses. "What's wrong with your hands?"

"Oh... they froze up while I was carrying the trunk," I say, trying not to notice how much they're starting to hurt now that they're warming up and the numbness of cold is wearing off. "They'll release eventually." He leaves me abruptly, and I turn around, opening my mouth to protest, but he's gone into the bathroom to pull down water from the roof and fill the tub. I keep my hands against my chest as I watch him kneel down and reach into the cold water, rubbing the fire rune on the bottom of the tub. It begins to glow; the water that flows over it steams until the rune is submerged.

Coming back to me, I watch him notice that I've still got my hands curled up against my breast and he shakes his head. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asks softly, and I shrug awkwardly, feeling the stiffness settling into my shoulders.

"What good would it have done? We had to get here, and the trunk had to come with us." He pulls up the hem of my tunic, and I try to raise my arms, but they won't go; I can't even get my elbows parallel with my shoulders, and he frowns with concern as I struggle. Gathering up the fabric in his hands, he eases the neckline off over my head, then slowly works my arms out of the sleeves. Peeling off the wet fabric leaves my skin chilled, and I begin to shake, my teeth chattering. Moving more quickly, he unties the laces to my breeches, shucking me from both them and my boots at the same time, the sodden mess of everything hitting the floor at once. Stripping his own shirt, he pulls me into his side to hold me against his fiery heat as he works on taking off his boots and getting his breeches undone one-handed. He is so warm, oh gods, the heat just radiating off of him in waves. I can't get close enough, trembling uncontrollably, and I would fall if not for the arm he has wrapped securely around me.

He lifts me easily, turning us and stepping into the tub, and I moan softly as the warm water washes over my feet, feeling hot as fire. Sitting in the centre of it, he drags me down into his lap, cradling me against his chest as I shudder, the water rising to cover us just above the waist. I curl against him, hands pressed between us, burying my face in his shoulder, and he holds me tightly. One thing I have had to learn is that without central heating, fiberglass insulation, and sealed windows, nights are very bitter when it's cold. You really can't be shy about how cold you are, or you'll die. Platonic group beds are not uncommon in the winter. Grabbing a small bucket from the side of the tub, he begins to pour the heated water over both of us, slowly warming our skin and stilling my shivering while I lay against him and whimper, both in the pleasure of warmth and the pain of restored feeling.

After a time, when the water has soothed away some of the ache from the trip up, Alistair looks through the little bottles lined up on the edge of the tub to find some bath oil. Spreading it between his hands, he takes hold of one of mine and begins to knead at the palm, slowly uncurling it from its locked position while I bite my lip and cry silently about it. Once he's got my hand open, he winces and hisses. "Maker, no wonder you couldn't open your hand, Lily, why didn't you _say_ anything?" Looking down, I see that the mark of the strap on the end of my trunk is quite visible as a livid purple bruise, a nasty stripe of pain that flares when I look at it.

"Ah! Why does it always hurt more when you look at it?" I complain, squeezing my eyes shut as he takes my other hand. "It had to be done... What was I going to do, put it down and make you carry it all?" I look up at him, and this is when I realise that he's got a raw bruise over his shoulder, where the rope rode, and gasp. "See?" I gently run the fingertips of my open hand over it, just tracing the outline. "You're bruised, too."

He shrugs, still working on my left hand, and I bite back a cry as my thumb unfolds. "That always happens."

I blink at him. "What? What do you mean?"

"Our trunks? Our gear?" I blink again, completely lost. "I've carried them before?" I'm still lost, and he shifts, leaning back a little bit from me so he can see my face better, his hands travelling further up my arm. "Through the Blight, Lily. Something you don't remember, I take it. How do you suppose all our gear got up to the Peak? Bodahn's cart didn't fit through those caves."

I stare at him, shocked and horrified. "Are you serious?" My voice has deserted me, the question coming out more as a croaked whisper, and he nods, brow furrowed. "And this happened every time?" He nods again, and I bow my head. "Oh my gods, Alistair, I'm so sorry. I had no idea she was making you do that. That's so horrible! I can't- If I had known- I wouldn't have saved so many things, I would have just sold them-" All that plate armour. Some of it too heavy for him to wear, at first. All those weapons. I cover my face with my broken hands and weep for him, tears of shame for all the pain I put him through without even knowing. Never mind all the times I let him stagger about with injuries because I wanted to finish the quest line, and he was still tanking just fine.

His arms come around me, pulling me into his chest. "Shhh... Okay, it's okay, honestly..."

I shake my head, burying my face in his shoulder, hands and all. She used him like a pack mule! "No, no, gods, no it's not... I'm so sorry... And then I get here, and I'm mean to you about things that happened then, and I had no idea how she was treating you-" And some of it I can't even explain.

"Lily, Lily, stop... shhhh..." His hand strokes over my wet hair, hugging me tightly. "Maker, I'm all right, see? I'm right here..." He presses a soft kiss to the centre of my forehead, and I shiver, curling closer against him and letting my hands drop in favour of wrapping my arms around his waist. I try really, really hard to let go of my guilt, but I don't think anything will ever ease my heart completely. I know too much. Yet, far too often, not anywhere close to enough, as well.

I couldn't think of everything, of course. The ways she treated Alistair with callous disregard sometimes tend to weigh on me, because she's supposed to be my alter ego.

Pruning and the cooling of the water eventually force us out of the tub, and Alistair kicks over the sealing stone on one side of the tub that lets the water out. I stand near the fire, spreading my hair over the backs of my hands, when Alistair comes to me with a package of poultice, wrapping my hands in bandages, always so gentle with me. "I'm sorry I yelled at you about Morrigan," I tell him quietly, as he turns my hands between his own. He pauses, looking at me, and I drop my gaze. "...I'm sorry I yelled at you at all. You're always so good to me... I'm lucky to have you in my life, and I know it. Now, more than ever." I look up again, and his eyes are so dark, making my breath catch. "I'm glad you brought me here, got me out of Antiva..." I swallow hard, suddenly feeling so vulnerable. "I love you."

He cups my cheek and kisses me softly, thumb stroking over my cheekbone - his shield hand. I always notice. Drawing back a bit, he presses his forehead to mine, looking at me from just inches away. "I love you, too," he murmurs, then studies me for a moment. "I'd do anything for you," he says, voice low.

For a moment, I cannot respond, I am so shocked. I've never heard these words out of someone who wasn't of questionable mental, emotional, and/or moral capabilities. I have no idea what to do with this. I blush, my heart in my throat, and laugh softly, a little nervous. "That's dangerous."

"It is. It really is," he says, and kisses me again, hot enough to curl my toes. I sway against him as the kiss deepens, and he wraps his arms around my waist, lifting me off my toes and backing toward the bedroom.

This time he doesn't let me use my hands, always catching them gently and pinning them next to my hips. He makes up for it, though, in the way he moves, all that heat and muscle rippling above me, and I writhe against him, struggling to keep my hands still.

Those long weeks at sea, the way he forced us to go slow, has given him stamina that completely swamps me, has me sobbing with need before he's decided he's even half done with the foreplay. By the time he finally drags me backward, hands curled around my hipbones to control the rate of my descent, I am so lost to him that I climax before he's fully seated, crying out, hands twitching ineffectually as I find that I'm unable to claw at the bedsheets.

He pauses there, riding it out with a low groan, and then gathers me up in his arms, pulling me against his chest. Once I showed him that he could take me from behind, it became his favourite; he quickly figured out that he could have me in his lap that way, and never looked back. It gives him my breasts, my belly, the roll of my hips and the insides of my thighs, _and_ lets him be inside at the same time. In Alistair's mind, there could never be anything better in all the world, especially since I can still tip my upper body to the side and kiss him. He loves nothing so much as to be within me, kissing me ardently, one hand low on my belly to hold me as tightly to him as possible, the other tangled in my hair.

And I, I cannot lie, have never felt anything like this, the way he owns me completely, enveloping me in the powerful strength and the overwhelming heat of him. I moan wantonly, writhing helplessly as he grips my torso, unable to cling as I usually would because of my hands, but I don't have to struggle, no. He's got me exactly where I want me, filling me completely, wrapped securely in his arms, and I roll with him, feeling him flex behind and beneath me, my wrists crossed between my breasts to remind me to keep them still. His hot hands are all over my skin, his breath across my neck and in my ear as he whispers to me words of devotion, promises of love. I am intoxicated, drunk on the feel and the sway of him, the sound of him in my ear and the scent of his skin. His name falls from my lips again and again, a plea, a chant, a whispered prayer, for him, for us, for a child and the chance at a normal life.

Oh yes, please, all of it.

"Don't let go!" I sob.

"Never," he whispers fiercely.

That's all I want. That's all I need.

_Z-_

That's all I need.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

In the morning, servants bring us a gigantic breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausages, cheese, bread, and fruit.

"No coffee?" I ask, forlorn, and one of the servants scurries off.

"Ah, sorry love, I forgot to ask for it," Alistair says, once he doesn't have his mouth full, having set-to like a Warden.

My fingers are stiff, my palms still sore, but I manage to wield a fork just fine, despite my lack of coordination and general weakness of grip. Better leave the bandages on.

I eat some sausage and a few pieces of fruit, have a slice of bread and cheese, and drink my coffee, which turns out to have more in common with stew than coffee. Alistair arches an eyebrow at me as I add another spoonful of honey and yet more cream to it, trying to make it taste like something other than burnt dirt.

"Something wrong?" he asks, eyes sparkling, and it's way too damned early for him to be so smug, so I make a face at him, and he laughs again.

"Did you know it was going to be gross?" I grouse, and he laughs some more, earning a scowl.

"I didn't, honestly. What it is, probably, is that you don't like Orlesian coffee."

I turn my scowl on my cup. "This is Orlesian coffee?"

"Is it thick enough to chew and taste like it could rust nails?"

I blink, looking between him and my cup. "Uh... yeah, basically."

"Yep." He nods, and stuffs another chunk of cheese in his mouth.

"Great. Orlesian coffee is nasty. Good to know." This is apparently the most hilarious thing he's ever heard, and it takes him several minutes to get a grip on himself while I look at him like the loon he is and choke down the rest of the cup. Once he can finally breathe, I ask him, "What's so funny?" and touch off another round of laughter, though this one is thankfully short-lived.

"Ah..." His eyes spark with humour. "I do love you, Lily. You're amazing; you know that, right?"

I blink. "Because I don't like Orlesian coffee?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "No one would ever admit to that. Orlais is where coffee _comes_ from."

I look into my cup, at the brown sludge in the bottom, and shudder. "You'd think they wouldn't be so gleeful about murdering the bean," I comment, and he busts up again. "I like Antivan coffee better."

Comedy gold. I should take this show on the road.

"I can't drink any more of this; it's terrible," I tell him, once he can breathe normally, and he grins.

"Hmmm... Yep!" he agrees, readily, then looks at my plate. "Don't you want some scrambled eggs? I thought you liked eggs."

I feel my smile slip to rueful, though the lightness of my mood doesn't change. "I do. I love eggs. They're so tasty, especially if you hard-boil them and chop them into a sandwich. Or if you cook them sunny-side up so that the yolk is still runny, and then you take a piece of bacon and poke at it until it bursts... Mmmmm..." He laughs, and I shake my head ruefully. "But alas, I'm allergic to the yolks."

"Allergic?"

"Uh... well, if I eat them, I get ill. May as well poison me. And the worst part is, my sensitivity to it became worse as I got older, but I still remember when I was a kid, and I could eat them. Mmmm... tasty, tasty eggs. I really just have to be careful about how they're prepared, because if it's baked in the oven, it renders the egg harmless, somehow. So like, I could eat bread, but then if you cover it in egg and fry it, I'll get sick. But you can make a cake, and I'll be fine, but if you then add egg to the frosting while you're cooking it, I'll get sick, because that's done on the stove, in a pot."

"How did I not know this?" he asks, blinking, and I grin.

"I'm just really good at making sure I don't eat eggs. I hate being sick like that. If I think it might have been prepared with egg, I skip it."

"Well, but... how do you know whether it will have egg in it?"

I shrug. "Long experience. Plus, I know how to cook."

He stares at me for a moment. "You do?"

I grin. "I do, indeed."

"How did I not know _that_?" he asks, incredulous, and I laugh.

"Not much call for it at home; we already have a cook."

He grins broadly. "Well. Now I know travel will be cheaper, if you can keep us from starving while we're on the road."

I nod. "We can get some supplies, and I can do camp food, yeah. We'll have to visit the market; I don't know what's available here. How long does it take to get from here to Amaranthine?"

"Ohh..." He rubs his chin, thinking, and I lay aside my befouled coffee cup. "I don't know, maybe three days? It depends on the road, honestly. I haven't seen it since I left."

"Okay. I pretty much know what to get us. So... we'll spend the day supplying ourselves, sleep one more night, and then take off first thing in the morning? I don't think I'm quite up to travel yet. My hands still hurt."

He nods. "Sounds like a good plan." He rubs his hands together, having polished off the eggs while we've been talking. "Let's get a move on, shall we?"

By daylight, the city of Denerim is incredibly familiar-looking, despite the fact that I've never been here. Signs of the war still show in some places: blackened stones on the sides of buildings down alleyways, where they haven't been white-washed or scoured by the rain, and houses where some of the stones are clearly newer than others, rebuilding over old foundations. The whole town is built from brick and mortar, wood and field-stone, flagstones and cobbles, thatch and slate.

The people look like typical medieval Brits, the clothing not at all changed from what I saw in the game. The women's hair falls free, from buns and braids, or out from under kerchiefs, and the men go both bearded and clean-shaven, with long or short hair, seemingly indiscriminately. I do like that there doesn't seem to be the opinion that men need short hair, and women need theirs long. I also like the equality of gender that I see amongst the shopkeepers, and wonder if Ferelden is going to be one of those places where an Equal Rights movement would be completely unnecessary. That'd be nice.

The clothes I have, even though they're fairly standard fare, are still slightly different enough in their cut and fabric that they stand out, so Alistair takes me down to the marketplace proper, where I can browse some ready-made items and speak to a tailor about fittings. The simple market square that I remember from the game is much bigger, much more filled with colour and light and people than I ever could have imagined, that certainly didn't come through in the little window I had to this universe. The people who created that game could not have spent enough time on this.

The market district is easily twelve times the size of the little square we got in the game; there are vendors from every walk of life. The booths are filled with wares of every description, as this port is a crossroads of the world. There are flags and awnings in a riot of colour, stripes and spirals and tapestries, smells of baked goods and candle wax, essential oils and incenses, the press of people and the chatter of the crowds. This place is so big, so labyrinthine, and so tightly packed, it reminds me of Seattle during a weekday lunch rush, including the smell of ocean and looming rain. Getting some groceries wrapped up and sent back to the inn doesn't take us long, but eats up five silver.

The tailor we visit has a fairly decent selection of common dresses and bodices, and so I find myself with three new outfits: one for every day, one for travelling, and one for nice occasion, but not fancy. Having tea with someone, or going on a lunch date, maybe. He never says a word, only standing nearby and watching, not missing a thing, but I get the everyday dress in light blue and white because of the way his eyes snap with fire when he looks at me while I have it on.

The tailor tries to suggest a cobbler, someone who can make me 'more appropriate' shoes, and I tell him to just make the skirts long enough that no one will be able to really see more than my toes. He blinks at me, and I smile.

"I change my boots for no one. Just don't hem it too high, please."

Alistair covers his mouth with his hand and coughs, hiding his laugh tactfully, and I hope I haven't just offended this poor guy. He seems to take it in stride, though, and the rest of the visit goes without mishap. The dresses are promised to be finished by the end of the day, and sent to the inn, so we leave another twenty-five silver with him and meander back out into the crush. I really hate having to count coin so carefully, but so far from home, it matters. I'll need to know if I have to use some to make something to sell, before it's all gone. I wince at the price, but Alistair just shakes his head.

"You'll never have to get more, while you're here, though. It's worth it to have clothes you can take from the road to the throne room, don't you think?"

I chew my lip, thinking about that. "I don't know. I've been trying to think how we can approach the situation. I was considering the idea that I show up dressed as... myself."

He immediately frowns, thundercloud covering his face, and drags me into a convenient corner where two buildings don't quite meet up properly, giving us a nook out of the main flow of traffic, but by no means private or out of view. "Why would you want to do that?" he demands, and I take a deep breath.

Conscious of those who might be watching us, I stand up straight, going up on my toes to graze my lips across his lightly, then take his hand, twining my fingers between his. "Because I think it's going to be important that we start with what he already knows, and then build on that, the same way I've done with everyone else. It takes time to accept, for it to make sense." He lets me take his arm again, automatically crooking his elbow as I fall into step beside him, focusing now on my words and not quite realising that I've got us moving again. "What I do not want is for anyone to become confused as to my _sincerity_. So, if I present all the things that are familiar, first, then the unfamiliar will be easier to swallow."

"Do you really think that will work?" he asks, and I bite my lip, hesitating.

"Well... It seems logical, right?" I shrug apologetically.

He just shakes his head. "Seems to be. Don't know if logic will be what works, though."

I shake my head, looking down. "I know. But I can't think of a better way to approach it, and... maybe... that'll be telling to him, too. Who knows. We've got time to come up with another plan, though. It might all depend on how we're met, too. If they catch us just as we enter Redcliffe, we might not have any choice."

"You know, you're probably right."

Well, that's always nice to hear, even if I have absolutely zero confidence in his assessment. I mean, I should though, right? Because I trust him on just about every other subject. Would he really place faith in me if it wasn't deserved?

_He's biased. And he hasn't seen my truly spectacular capacity for failure in action, yet._

There's a thought to make me shudder, considering what's coming, and what Ferrilin predicted.

I just need to try and think positively; I can't be tearing myself up all the time. He believes in me, so there must be a reason. Right? Right.

I wish I could see me the way he does.

Every so often, I see a shop that I know the name of, or a corner of the city that looks familiar, but I can't believe how different everything is. "It's bound to be, don't you think?" he asks me, when I admit my confusion, over lunch. "I mean, consider how much of it burned," he murmurs, and I nod. It's true. I saw it, even if I wasn't physically here at the time. We both studiously avoid looking up at the palace, and the fort that overshadows the entire city.

The food here is so good. _So_ good. Shepherd's pie, pasties, hearty stews, stuffed mushrooms and meatloafs and baked potatoes and grilled or baked fish and things with leeks in it, and sourdough bread, and everything is beautiful. Since Denerim is a port city, they have a seafood chowder that is so fantastic, tastes so much like home it makes me melt, and Alistair laughs as I eat it in raptures, delighted to watch me discover all the things about his home that are similar to mine.

Looking out from the terrace behind a shop later that afternoon, the ocean is a familiar slate grey, the nip to the wind that freezes the end of my nose, the smell of salt water and the whip of my hair on my cheek in the November chill so much like home that it takes my breath away.

His warmth envelops me a moment later as Alistair comes up behind me, resting his chin on my shoulder. "Should we find a place to be inside? You're cold..." He chafes my arms with his always-hot hands, and I have to admit, I didn't notice just _quite_ how cold I was until he started doing that. I shiver at the dichotomy and close my eyes.

"Yeah... But it's about time. I missed it, being this kind of cold. I may not be home, but it feels like it. Gods, no wonder you smell like home to me," I murmur, turning my face to capture his mouth, and he kisses me softly before drawing back.

"I have to check in with Nate, officially, because technically I'm in his territory," he says, studying my face. "So... we should hire a wagon before we go back to the inn."

What this means is that, after a short siesta, I have to walk my legs off all over Denerim, to see a man about a cart. Or several men, actually, about tons of different carts, until we finally find a place that Alistair deems acceptable. After that, at my insistence, we stop and eat some dinner at a nice little place that serves us a potato leek soup in a bread bowl, stuffed mushrooms, and roasted mutton with raspberry sauce. When the lady asks me what I want to drink, I tell her water, then pause.

"Have you got any hard stuff?" I'm hurting so badly. If I'm going to make it back to our inn and still be functioning tomorrow, I need a little something to lubricate my joints, because eighteen was a long time ago, and lunch was easily several miles ago. Alistair raises his eyebrow, but doesn't comment. When she agrees that she does, I ask her what she has that's local, and end up with about a pint of 'honey-whiskey' when the food arrives. I'm expecting something akin to mead, and a glass with two fingers in it, so this is a surprise, but I take a drink anyway.

Alistair pauses, looking at me as I stare at the bottle in my hand, speechless. "What? What is it?" he asks, concerned, and I shake my head slowly.

"I'll be damned," I finally murmur, awed. "Here, taste this," I urge, handing it over, and Alistair takes it, testing a sip, then nods and shrugs.

"Honey-whiskey. Good bottle of it, too," he allows, and I grin widely. "What?" he asks again, looking at me from the corners of his eyes.

"This is my exact poison," I say, looking at him and licking my lips. "Not just any honeyed whiskey, but this one in particular. Gods, it's beautiful. I thought I'd never have it again." I roll the fantastic liqueur over my tongue, and thank Dionysus that Bonnie Prince Charlie isn't the only person in all of any creation who thought up this particular combination.

He pauses, studying me for a long moment, and I arch an eyebrow. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"M-" He glances around, then lowers his voice a little bit. "That was _her_ favourite, too."

I blink, speechless again, but for an entirely different reason. I'd written in that Mahariel had a drinking problem for a while after Ostagar, but got it under control eventually. I never really said what she drank, because it was just a few scenes where she was actually already drunk, and they just found her someplace. Oh shit.

I look down at the bottle in my hand, an eerie chill creeping up my spine. The ways in which she is like me without me even knowing anything about it are the ones that freak me out the most.

"Hmm... Well... I guess that shouldn't be surprising - she was me." I take two good swigs, then tuck it away. "Better keep that someplace safe. The last thing I need is a hangover in a rattling wagon."

He eyes me warily. "Is that something I have to worry about?" he asks like he dreads the answer, and I shake my head.

"Nah... I love the stuff, it's true, and left to my own devices, I might drink a whole bottle of it and get trashed some night, but it's not like I'd go seeking that out on a regular basis, and I never drink to such excess that I make myself sick. Well. I've done it a few times, but usually entirely by accident. Miscalculations, ate the wrong food first, that kind of thing. I mean, really, in all the time you've known me, how many times have you even seen me drunk? Not just tipsy and giggly, but actually drunk?" I pause, watching as he rolls his eyes up toward the ceiling, thinking about it; when he looks back at me, I've got two fingers held up, and he nods, a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Twice. Once was that cider the cook made last fall that I didn't know was _hard_ cider because it was warm and my nose was stuffed up so I didn't taste the alcohol, and the other time was when Leliana brought out that Orlesian sweet wine last spring and it went straight to my head because I'd only been eating strawberries and cream. Right?"

I fix him with an almost straight-faced stern eye, and arch my brow as he hesitates. "Riiight?"

Alistair dips his head, smiling. "Right..."

"Okay then. See? And if I were going to go on a tear like that, I certainly would have done it a long time ago. So, don't worry."

He looks up at me, that boyish smile that slays me, the one that tells me - now that I know him better - that he's not telling nearly everything he's thinking, and I'm probably in for it later, whatever mischief he's got in mind now. "Got it."

Do I even want to know? I don't dare think. Maybe he intends to get me trashed on purpose sometime, just to see what happens. I wouldn't put it past him. "Hmmm..." I mutter, eyeing him, and then narrowly miss his fingers with my fork as he steals one of my mushrooms and stuffs it in his mouth before I can do anything about it. My fork hits the plate with an audible clack, and he laughs, covering his mouth as I scowl and point the fork at him. "I'm going to remember you did that. I love mushrooms; you know that, right? So that's totally a fighting move right there. I'll remember. I'm gonna get you for it later, when you least expect it." I nod, keeping a grim look on my face with almost convincing accuracy.

He smirks, having long since swallowed his prize. "Well, now you've told me, you've lost your element of surprise. You don't think I'll be on guard?"

I do my best try at a Mona Lisa smile. "Oh, mushrooms are a serious business. I can wait years. One day, you'll be there, minding your own business, just sitting there in the bath, and I'll just come up behind you, 'Oh, hi honey,' and then _chomp_! Right on the shoulder. And you'll be affronted and confused, saying something like, 'Augh! What was that for?', and I'll point at you and say, 'You _know_ why, _mushroom thief_!'." I point my fork at him again, and he bursts into laughter.

While he's distracted, I steal a piece of his cheese. I wait until he's breathing and looking at me again before I wave it in front of him. "Hey!" he protests, and I laugh, purposefully taking a bite and giving him defiant cheek.

"Just redressing the balance. Still gonna get you."

He laughs again, and I love it. I've never heard him laugh so much as he has today. I can't believe it. He's so glad to be home; he doesn't even have to say it. There's a lightness to him that I've only seen in glimpses, when he's at his most playful. But this is a quieter thing, not an exuberance. Just... I can tell he's in his element. He knows this land. A stronger confidence, I suppose. He knows what he's about, here.

On our way back to the inn, I become aware of the strangest smell, almost like cheap perfume. Alistair notices it, too, and we stop, trying to identify the source.

"It... almost smells like... The Pearl..." Alistair mutters. Turning around, we discover Ponka standing behind us. He hasn't been able to follow us into most of the shops we've been to, because most shopkeepers don't really take into account mabari butts. Grinning hugely, he wears a yellow scarf wound around his neck.

There is a moment where both of us stare at him like we've never seen him before; he sits down, puffing out his chest, and we burst into laughter. "So, I take it you've been fed well, tonight?" I ask, and Ponka barks happily, making us both laugh again. "Okay, y'rascal; you gonna have puppies running around here?" I ask, eyeing him as we all head up the street together. Ponka whines and growls in a sort of contemptuous way, and I laugh again. "Okay, okay, not my business. Fair enough."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The next morning, we are just checking the room for missed socks and suchlike when one of the maids comes up and says there is a royal messenger in the main hall, waiting for us. I look up at Alistair, alarmed and confused, and he doesn't look like he feels any better, which is not reassuring in the slightest.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Is the wagon ready?" he asks the nervous servant, and she nods. "Right, take us out the back, then, and we'll be on our way," he says, much to my surprise. She only hesitates a moment, but nods again, and leads us down a stairwell at the very back of the inn. We come out in the kitchen, and the cook looks at us with raised eyebrows as the maid opens the door for us. Alistair gives her a few silvers as we slip out, and she smiles wanly.

"Keep the messenger occupied for five minutes, yeah?" I murmur as I pass her, and she swallows, looking very anxious and maybe a little queasy, but nods for the third time. "Thanks honey," I say, squeezing her arm gently, before following Alistair. We circle around the side of the building, and the wagon stands there in the alley, waiting for us. Ponka is laying down in front of our trunks; he raises his head when he sees us, then glances off to the side, toward the entrance. Peeking past the corner, I can see the guard standing outside, but he's looking the other direction. I motion Alistair behind me, and he darts over to the wagon, clambering inside, trying to keep his head down. He is not at all quiet, and the guard looks my way.

I cough, pausing in the street to examine the hem of my dress, bending forward so that there's a decent view of my cleavage. I have no idea if this is going to work, of course, and I really can't stop to check, or I'll be made. The guard's eye shifts away from me as I straighten - good sign, meaning he didn't want to be caught staring - his head turning in my peripheral; I nonchalantly amble over to the wagon, flipping a piece of canvas down over Alistair as I climb in. The driver starts us moving almost right away, and after a moment, Alistair pokes his head out from under the canvas to look at me, though he keeps himself covered otherwise. I'd think this would be the time for a sigh of relief, but he still looks tense.

"What is going on?" I ask again, once we've put a bit of distance between us and the inn, but still, I keep my voice down. "Why are we avoiding one of Anora's messengers?"

"Er..." Alistair rubs the back of his neck and looks a little embarrassed, and I can feel my scowl deepening. "Technically I'm... not supposed to be in Denerim. Not without informing Anora first."

I blink. "What? Why? Oh." She thinks he's still a threat to her power base. "Yeah... I don't think I could get us out of Drakon this time around," I mutter.

"Right. So... We'll just head for Amaranthine, shall we?" he asks, and I bite my lip.

"What if she has a guard on the gate?"

He blinks, and I smack my forehead. There's nowhere for him to run here, either. "I didn't exactly have time to _plan_, you know," he protests.

I growl, rubbing the aching point between my eyes. "It would have been really helpful if you'd told me about Anora not wanting you here when I said I wanted off the boat." This is the moment when the general mist in the air solidifies into pissing rain, and I pull my hood down closer over my face. The driver stops at the gate, getting in line with the rest of the traffic, but gets us through without hassle. The shape of Alistair's body is well-hidden by the drape of the canvas that hangs off the trunks and crates stacked in the back of the wagon, and Ponka sits up next to me, further blocking Alistair from view as the mostly disinterested eyes of the guardsmen rake over us and onward to the next group.

I let a breath out as the cart clears the exit, feeling my shoulders drop. As we're pulling away and heading down the road, I see a tired-looking young man in the yellow livery of Ferelden run up to one of the guards. My heart leaps into my throat, and every moment oozes by like swimming through molasses as we slowly inch away from the gate, but the kid is still catching his breath and gesturing back toward the way he came when a curve of the land hides them from view.

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly, and try to let the tension flow out of me. "We are _so_ lucky. And you are _such_ an ass! Why didn't you say anything?" I ask querulously, smacking his thigh through the canvas.

Sitting up and throwing the canvas off, he pulls his cloak closely about him and blushes, looking more than a little embarrassed. "Honestly? I'd forgotten all about it until the maid said there was a messenger. I was just so happy to be home."

Ah, great, and what can I say to that without looking like a bitch? "Okay, okay," I concede, curling into his side, and we wrap our cloaks around each other. "Nothing to be done about it now anyway. Either she'll pursue us or she won't. If we're lucky, she'll put it down to rumour and turn her attention elsewhere."

Travelling by wagon, it turns out, is not fun at all. There is no rubber to cushion the wheels. There are no shock absorbers to even out the ride. The shaking of the structure rattles my teeth, and the clatter of the cow's hooves drills into my skull, giving me a pretty much permanent headache, starting from about an hour outside of Denerim.

Oh, but that night, it gets worse.

The wagon is the worst bed I've ever had in the history of everything ever. It's like sleeping on a pile of rocks and horseshoes. We don't have much choice, either, because the rain simply never lets up. Sometimes it's just misting, other times it's pouring, but most of the time, it's sprinkling or straight up raining. Every day, I wake up grumpy and am the worst travel companion. I can't bring myself to even speak, most of the time, because I know I'm going to snap at both of them, but I just can't help myself. Everything hurts, and every time the wagon jolts over another rock, another hole in the road, terrible lightning bolts shoot up my legs and into my back.

At meal times, I make us food without comment. Alistair is impressed and pleased by my fireside skill with a knife and a pile of meat and vegetables, his compliments one of the few things that makes me smile. Feeding a Warden is no easy task. He metabolises things so quickly, he ends up eating enough for three men. I miscalculated the first night, thinking there would be enough homefries left for all three of us for breakfast, but Alistair packed it all away. The Wardens eat so fast, I guess I never noticed how much they actually consume at once.

Fortunately for me, I learned my kitchen skills at my grandmother's knee, and she was used to cooking for a brood, so it's not hard for me to eyeball the portions upward. I've got my dad to thank for knowing how to cook over a fire, though.

Thinking of him brings an unexpected and very deep pain to my heart, so overwhelming that it makes me burst into tears over lunch, randomly, our second day. It scares Alistair, disconcerts our driver, and embarrasses the hell out of me. I guess I'm just in too much pain to be emotionally stable.

I never thought I'd feel this way, but I wish I could have introduced Alistair to my dad, and that side of my family. They would have loved him.

On the third day, I finally break my silence. "Alistair..." I have to whisper, because otherwise I'm going to scream. "If there's not a hot bath for me at the end of this day, I think I'm going to cry."

He blinks, staring at me in astonishment, because I've been my own little curled up world of misery for the last couple of days. Gingerly gathering me into his arms, as I whimper and try not to move too much, he rests his cheek on the top of my head. "I saw a road marker a few minutes ago. We should reach the keep in about an hour. I'll see to it, love." I curl up against his side, even though he's about as comforting as cuddling a rock, right now, but I know he means well, and I want to believe that the agony will be over soon. I haven't felt this bad in a really, really long time.

Despite my discomfort, I drift a bit, as I'm startled by the guard at the gate of the Wardens' keep hailing our driver. I let go of Alistair as he jumps down from the back of the wagon, hear the guard's voice instantly warm from professional scrutiny to friendly surprise. Before I can decide if I want to just stay in the wagon or go ahead and get out, it starts moving again.

I can hear Alistair keeping pace, chatting amiably with the Warden, but I just can't focus on it, and I don't want to straighten up enough to peer over the side and find out more. My skeleton is made of knives.

I asked Anders about it, last summer, why my body is still creaky and achy once in a while, after all the healing he did for me when I got squashed. He said healing can restore everything to how it's meant to be, but the flesh is new and fragile, the bonds tenuous and easily re-broken, when it's an injury of that magnitude. Normal movement won't dislodge or harm anything, but when the situation with the Crows forced me into battle That Night, I wasn't fully healed, and I put a lot of stress on the newly forming bonds. As a consequence... they never really set properly. Normally it's not a problem, and I'm so much better that I never feel it, but if I push myself too hard or go through a lot of physical stress, it hurts. I suppose it's what arthritis might feel like, only it almost never strikes; this is the worst it's ever been, and I suddenly appreciate how pain-free my existence here was, up until now.

We finally roll to a stop again, and I gather my cloak against the rain as Alistair drops the gate to give me a hand getting out. I feel beyond rickety, but it's good to have my feet back on solid ground. The rain patters down around us, big fat drops, but not too many of them yet; the ominous black of the cloud above promises that things will change momentarily. A stable boy hustles across the yard toward the wagon as I look up at the edifice that is Vigil's Keep, tucked into a fold of rock and surrounded by high walls and towers. It's beautiful. I can't believe I'm here. I've never been in a castle before, and the prospect makes me nearly giddy with excitement.

Alistair grins, watching me look up. "Welcome to the home base of the Wardens of Ferelden," he murmurs. I bite my lip, suppressing a giggle, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. "I never thought I'd be able to bring you here, Lily, but I'm glad we came, even if it's just to watch you look at things that way. I can't wait for you to meet Nate."

The seneschal appears not a moment later, giving Alistair a clap on the shoulder and a grin in greeting. He notes my presence and nods to me, but doesn't remark on it as he leads us into the great hall, catching up with Alistair instead. I look around, noting the paintings on the walls. Distinguished-looking people, all heroic or serious, and one of them looks... really... familiar. Oh gods. I stumble, catching myself against Alistair's back. He turns, grabbing my arm and looks down at me, concerned. I cough to cover my embarrassment and shake my head. "Sorry, very tired," I mumble, and he tilts his head, looking at me sceptically, but lets it pass.

A boom of thunder heralds the entrance of a tall, black-haired man from a doorway at the top of the room. "Ah, Alistair, it sounds like you got here just in time," the man says, looking toward the doors. The deluge that has just been released from the heavens is audible, even through the heavy oak.

"Apparently so!" he agrees, shaking the other man's hand. "Nate, I'd like you to meet my lady-" he starts, turning toward me, but is interrupted by a gravelly voice from the shadows behind the black-haired man.

"By the stone! It can't be!"

Oh no.

"Warden?"

I slowly turn toward the shocked questioner, knowing who I will find there, dreading it, praying that he's not talking about me, but of course, that's too much to hope for. He's seen me in profile, and hooded. I think my un-tattooed face will throw him, but he looks right at my eyes, and is struck speechless with nearly horrified recognition for a moment.

Why'd he have to be part of the greeting party?

Because of Alistair, of course.

Fuck me running.

I swallow hard. Too late for subterfuge.

"Um... Hi."

Oghren.


	33. Muddy Ground

_A/N: Still delayed. Out of buffer. *tearing hair out* At least now, after nearly three months, chapter 34 has gone from barely 1200 to closing in on 5k words. I'm thinking 34 will be on time. Hopefully. I'm trying to power through the rest of the story. Just 40k more words. I can do this. Right? Right. We'll get there. Thanks for sticking with me._

"...Cassia," Alistair finishes his introduction of me, resigned. We had intended to use my alias, but Oghren's recognition is throwing that straight out the window; there's no point in it now, not really. We all know my face.

"Cassia?" the seneschal asks. "You called her 'Lily' outside." Alistair pauses, caught out and surprised, and I feel my jaw drop. I didn't even notice. Apparently, from the look on his face, neither did Alistair. We are _so_ not sneaky.

I don't have another second to draw breath as Oghren's face transforms with grim determination. His axe is down over his shoulder and Ponka barks loudly, rushing toward us; Alistair makes a grab for him, but the man is on me before I have a chance to say anything else, or blink. He drives his shoulder into my stomach, body-checking me, and I am splayed on my back on the floor in a hot second; the impact of my body on the stone is a white-hot brand that momentarily blinds me, stealing my breath. Two points beneath my chin from the forked blade at the top of his axe freeze me in place. Ponka crouches nearby, growling threateningly, ready to spring.

"Wait!" Alistair exclaims, but Oghren just snarls, eyes only for me, cold as the snow, and twice as ruthless. My fear is clear to him, and he finds me sorely lacking in mettle because of it.

"Knew better than to go after the assassin, did you? What did you tell the boy?" he shouts at me, the roar of his voice drowning out even Ponka's growling. "Playing on your likeness to a dead friend! How many story-tellers did you listen to before you found him? Did you bat your pretty eyelashes and tell him that _he'd_ always been the one?" He's furious, and I close my eyes, trying to quell my panic before he skewers me, but I am well and truly terrified. It's all I can do to fight for breath, fingers twitching as my mind races on the back of an adrenaline rush, trying to figure out what I can do, what I can say, to get him away from me.

"Oghren-" I start, but Alistair cuts me off by accident, because we both speak at the same moment. Oghren's eyes narrow at my use of his name; technically, no one's introduced him to me yet.

"Stand down! This isn't what you think!"

Continuing to ignore Alistair, he leans in closer, the points forcing me to tip my chin back and bare my throat if I want to keep the blades out of my flesh. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't stick your head on pike, you cheap imposter," he growls, the menace in his voice turning my stomach to jelly.

What can I say, what can I say? What do I know about Oghren that only I would know? Think! _Think!_

The blood thundering in my ears drowns out all else. Wait, blood. Blood! "'When from the blood of battle the Stone has fed, let the heroes prevail and the blighters lie dead!'" I quote him desperately and all in a rush, the last thing he said to me before I left him at the gate when we went up Drakon.

"A bit of verse from the Final Day?" he grits out, completely unimpressed enough that he's about to spit on me, and I can't help the whimper that escapes me. "That's all you've got? A half-dead, blighted nug's got more sense than that!" I never listened to the bards talking about the Blight; I didn't want to hear it, and now I don't know what they tell!

"Oghren, I can promise you, you want to stop this," Alistair warns, to no avail. I'm sure he, like Ponka, doesn't dare try to lay hands on him, not with the blades so close to ending my life.

Where did we go, what did we do? Fuckin' hell, this is what I get for excluding Sten and Oghren so often, because two-handers are so slow. I can feel my eyes widen and my heart hammers as his lip curls. I'm hesitating too long. Ponka is growling, and the blades are so sharp- _Think!_ Wait, Ponka. Ponka! He _hates_ Oghren. "Mabari war-chariots!" I blurt. He pauses, the grim certainty that I'm some swindler overtaken by shocked recognition flickering through his eyes; it is quickly swallowed by a boat load of suspicion, but he has enough questions now that the fork slips, the flat and cold weight of his blade resting against my chest for a moment before it lifts.

He backs just a couple of paces away, looking at me with narrowed eyes, highly sceptical, but possibly inclined to hear me out. Most importantly for my current comfort level, he's pulled his axe back into his hands, so is less likely to kill me in the next handful of seconds. This is an improvement. Ponka immediately leaps into the middle, teeth bared and hackles up. He barks sharply at Oghren, fully attack-ready, but no one makes any further moves.

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly, my eyes closing in relief for just a second. Sitting up, shaken, I unclasp my cloak as it pulls and chokes me, letting it fall to the floor, then run my fingers through my hair, trying to regain some of my composure.

"All right, while that was entertaining, perhaps someone could explain to me what's going on now." I look up at the black-haired man, surely Nathaniel Howe, who is watching me impassively, and give him a weak smile. In the next moment, my view is blocked by Alistair reaching down to help me to my feet. I sway, eyes clenched tightly against the wave of pain and fatigue that washes over me, now that the adrenaline rush is wearing off. I press my lips together tightly, but can't quite swallow the little whimper that escapes me as I lean against him, grateful for his strength. I just need one night of sleep on a bed that's not made of straight wood, and I'll be right as rain. Hopefully. Theoretically.

But before that... Hours of talking. Again.

"Mmmmh... Yeah... Uh..." I take a deep breath, looking around at all the guards and other people in the room and shake my head. "I don't think this is a wise place for that conversation, and I'm not feeling very well, so if I could sit down someplace warm, that'd be nice... Please."

I can feel myself flush with embarrassment as Oghren scowls deeply at Alistair's and my easy manner with each other, but I'm not going to apologise, and I square my shoulders a little. I've got nothing to be ashamed of, here. Now I just need to convince a surly dwarf of that.

There is a moment of silence where I realise Ponka has left off his threats right as he nudges my hip with his nose. I look down, and he's holding up my cloak in his mouth. "Aww, honey, thank you," I murmur, taking it, and scratch him behind the ear. He snorts, tipping his nose up, then grins, his little tail-bump wiggling, and I can't help but smile for him. I let Alistair easily pull the cloak from my hand and he throws it over his shoulder as I take his arm. Ponka keeps himself between me and Oghren, never taking his eyes off the dwarven warrior, but he doesn't spare my hound a glance on the way to Nathaniel's study.

The fire is both warm and welcome, and I sink into the closest seat to it gratefully. Alistair sits next to me on the bench, and Ponka parks himself squarely in front of me, facing Oghren, who elects to stand. Nathaniel takes a seat across from Alistair and me, apparently completely at ease, and studies me for a moment before addressing Alistair instead, making me blink.

"What brings you back to the Vigil? After that business with Anora, I would have thought we'd see you next at your Calling." He pauses, eyeing Alistair, but apparently decides that couldn't be why we've come, just from the general lack of reaction.

Alistair shakes his head, scrubbing his hands through his hair and inadvertently spraying me with mist. I try to be discreet about wiping my face on my sleeve, but Nathaniel notices, even if Alistair doesn't, and I see the corner of his mouth twitch upward in amusement.

"That was a mess, I'll admit," Alistair says, resigned, then groans, sitting back and stretching out his legs. "We've got some travelling in mind. I thought it'd be a good idea to check in on things here before we went south. I've brought some business with me, but it'll keep." He waves a dismissive hand, trying to reassure, as Nathaniel looks like he might be inclined to worry. "It's nothing, really, just things I carried since I was coming, instead of sending them along with a messenger."

Alistair and Nathaniel exchange a few more minutes of pleasantries and inconsequential banter with the ease of old friends, until there is a knock on the door that startles me out of my half-dozing daydream, staring into the fire. Several servants file in, quickly and efficiently arranging food and drink on the sideboard, then disappearing just as fast. One of them even throws most of a ham hock into a large bowl on the floor, getting Ponka's attention.

Ahhh... Smart man. He knew the servants would be coming, and didn't want to be interrupted speaking of anything important.

I uncross my legs, meaning to get up, but Alistair presses my knee, still talking with Nathaniel, already sliding forward, urging me to stay. I'm not inclined to argue, so I give him a grateful smile, and he winks at me, his face turned toward me in such a way that no one else could see him do it. I feel the blush rising and cast my gaze aside, not wanting to invite the besotted feeling that always gets me giggling at the worst moments.

The men move about the sideboard, decimating the contents, and Alistair hands me a plate as he resumes his seat next to me. Ponka drags the bowl over to the fireplace and shoves it close to the flames, watching it carefully. It's true that he'll eat just about anything - sometimes I think he's half goat - but when he's got food that's been cooked or cured somehow, he likes it to be warm, if possible. I never thought I'd see a dog actually sort of cook something to eat for himself. He's so strange.

Despite Oghren's obviously growing irritation, Alistair and Nathaniel continue to talk amiably until everyone's done eating. Setting his plate aside, Nathaniel turns his attention back to me, lacing his fingers together over his stomach and looking at me critically, sceptically.

"Hmmm... 'Lady Cassia', is it? I've never heard of you."

Well, he's a Fereldan noble; he wouldn't have, of course. I bite my lip, taking a deep breath. How much do I dare spill? "Um... That's because it's an alias. My name is... Lily... actually..." I swallow, hoping this doesn't trigger another outburst from Oghren, but he snarls and points at me. He's opening his mouth to say something when Nathaniel raises his hand. Oghren looks at him, struggling internally, but finally subsides.

Oghren's state doesn't escape Nathaniel's notice, and it's clear that he's beginning to apprehend the situation here as he studies my face more carefully. "Do you claim to be the Hero of Ferelden?" he asks bluntly, but I shake my head.

"No. Lily Mahariel is dead."

This is apparently an answer that neither he nor Oghren was expecting, and they exchange glances. There is a moment of silence while Alistair rubs the back of his head, avoiding meeting Nathaniel and Oghren's eyes.

"You just talked like you think you're her!" Oghren accuses, pointing at me again, and I take a deep breath.

"Well... yeah. Because I was her. Or, well, she was me, actually. Um." I shake my head and run my fingers through my hair, tired and cranky. "Please understand, this is not the entrance we intended to make. I meant to come here with an alias, stay a night or two, say how do you do and nice to meet you, then be on my way to other places. I'm not trying to be obvious about who I am, but I can't exactly change what I look like. So, actually, I'm sorry you recognized me, Oghren. I didn't mean for that to happen. Lels told me you were here, but that was ages ago and I forgot all about it, with everything that's happened since then. When I turned to look at you in the hall, I was hoping the facts that I'm not an elf and don't have her _vallaslin_ would throw you, but you looked at my eyes." I shrug, spreading my hands, because there's really nothing else I can say about that. It's not my fault he recognized me.

"That doesn't make any sodding sense!" Oghren snaps, and I laugh mirthlessly.

"Tell me about it. If it's any consolation, that was my first reaction, too." I bite my lip as he starts to look even more pissed off, and hold out a hand in a conciliatory gesture. "Look, I'll tell you the truth as I know it, and I'm sorry it's not much, but here it is: I'm from another place completely, somewhere beyond the Fade. The people of my world can't travel to other worlds, except by dreams, so how I managed to come through physically is a mystery to everyone, including me. I'm not keeping anything from you on that account: I simply don't know. It's not supposed to be possible."

"What do you mean, 'in dreams'?" he asks, clearly not entirely sure he wants to know the answer.

"Think of it as... like... I was the hand in the glove. She was my other self. I chose to come, and be born as Lily Mahariel. Just like anyone, I didn't know what was going to happen after that. The information I had about this world before I came here was very minimal. I knew it was a world with magic, where there were other races besides human. I knew that depending on where I was born, I'd be treated differently, and what made me decide to come is that they told me something was about to go terribly wrong here, and it was going to be a very dark and difficult journey if I wanted to try to help."

All of them are staring at me now, and I glance at Alistair, shifting uncomfortably. "You _knew_ the Blight was coming?" Alistair asks, incredulous, but I shake my head emphatically. I hesitate for just a fraction of a second, closing my eyes. Here we go. Time to talk about the Blight.

"No. I was told that it would be dangerous to come here, that I'd have a lot of extremely hard decisions to make, but I never imagined..." I swallow. "I had no idea, I swear to you. I never knew what was coming, only that it wasn't going to be easy, that I'd have to fight for it. I had an idea, sometimes, but no more than anyone else. By the time I met Duncan, I knew just by the way my life was turning upside down that whatever I was here for had started. Sometimes you can just smell something coming."

I'm aware that they're staring at me, and the weight of their combined gaze is frighteningly heavy. I draw a deep breath, try to sit up a little straighter without being obvious about it, because I can't falter here. If I can't make Oghren believe me, I don't have a snowball's chance in hell of convincing Teagan.

"Like how the longer I watched Isolde do her little song and dance, the more certain I became that she was lying, that she was hiding something. Ah, but you weren't with us then," I remember, looking at Oghren. "You didn't meet me until almost the end, when I was impatient and miserable, going into the one place that will bring out the worst in a Warden... particularly an elven one. I thought it was a fool's errand, that we were going to get ourselves killed, or worse, and wasting time. I figured Branka was dead, and we'd find her corpse someplace, especially after Rukh, and then all those fucking spiders, and finding her empty camp, twice... Yeah. But then the broodmother..."

I shudder, gagging. That was the most disgusting moment of the game, all that bullshit with Hespith and Branka. I just about barfed, playing through it. Forgive her and let her keep the Anvil? Please.

"Of all the things I witnessed during the Blight, aside from my general disgust at the folly of so many of the people I met, there are three moments of depravity and pure evil that stick out in my mind as the worst. At the top has got to be the broodmother. Below that, what happened to my lost Tamlen. And third, the darkspawn's final insult to Cailan. It was like they knew exactly who he was, and did that as a message. It showed an intelligence I didn't dare underestimate again. Lels says they were talking in Common, when you found them here. I can't say I'm surprised - it was only a matter of time. They were showing signs of higher sentience during the Blight, too."

"Out of everything we saw, _those_ were the worst?" Alistair asks, incredulous. "What about Loghain leaving us to be slaughtered at Ostagar? What about Connor, or Uldred, or... or _Haven_?"

I shudder again at the memory. "Yeah, Haven was scary-bad. But, still, that was all people. That wasn't accident, or the doings of the darkspawn. It's the things that happened to us which were beyond anyone's control that stuck in my head. Like when we lost Daveth. Like when that sloth demon sucked us into the Fade. Like when the archdemon invaded our minds to gloat when Riordan fell."

There is a moment of silence, and I swallow thickly, looking down at my lap. I hate this. And I'm going to have to do it again when we get to Redcliffe, too.

Oghren grunts, still inclined to dislike me, stubbornly continuing his line of questioning. "Hmm. None of this explains what you're doing here without the elf. If you were really her, he'd be with you."

I close my eyes, bowing my head for a moment as the memory strikes me through the heart again, and have to swallow twice before I have enough grip on myself to answer coherently, without my voice breaking. "Zevran? Uh... He's... in Antiva. Leading the Crows... actually."

Oghren snorts. "She never used his full name," he says, growling.

I feel Alistair shift uncomfortably next to me, and lean into his side a little. "Yeah... he- We aren't... together... anymore. Using his full name sort of... helps to put some distance between me and... him... because it... it was a bad scene." I finally stumble to a halt and take a deep breath. I don't want to talk about this. "Please-" I start, but Oghren cuts me off.

"He would've never left the Warden!" he protests, still suspicious and angry.

"Well I'm not 'the Warden' anymore," I snap, patience frayed, because I'm about to cry over it, and I don't want to do that in front of these men. "I'm just the common carpenter who drove her. She was my hands, my body, my blades, my voice, and she was physically capable of things I could never do, but I lost all that when the archdemon's death threw me out of Thedas for good, or so I thought. So _yes_, he left me, because we were in Antiva, and I'm not strong enough to follow him into the darkness of the Crows like that, though the gods know I broke myself repeatedly in the attempt." I take another breath and smooth my shaking hands over my skirt.

"No one could have come between those two," Oghren says, still obstinately refusing to allow me to connect myself to my avatar. "He wouldn't have let go of her. He didn't even let go when she fell."

I feel my mouth twist into a bitter little smile, and just keep referring to myself in the first person. "I know." I bow my head, my voice dropping as I look at my hands, laying useless and empty in my lap. "The Crows did what no one else ever could have: tore us apart from the inside. I count myself extraordinarily fortunate that I had friends around me to catch me, because... I was in a really bad way after that." I glance up at Alistair, and he flashes me a tense smile.

"See? Right there. That's out of place; the Warden never had eyes for anyone but that Antivan," he says, as though this proves everything. I stare at him for a moment, trying to gather myself, seeing Alistair grimace out of the corner of my eye.

"We- You... joined us late, like I said. Other things happened first, and Alistair and I didn't work out last time around because I was Mahariel, and we weren't right for each other, then. Things between him and me happened the way they did now because... they did. Because I'm not her, and what I need in _my_ life is different than what I could and would have pursued if I had continued to be her. It took me awhile to come to terms with that, but... I've been a lot happier since then. Mahariel is dead, and she took a lot more from me than just a body, when I lost her. But... There are a lot of things I have now that I couldn't have ever dreamed of, if I'd lived."

Nathaniel arches a brow as he looks me up and down. "You're in remarkably good health for a dead woman," he says dryly, and I smile, laughing self-consciously.

"Well. I didn't stay that way, obviously. I think I _had_ to die, to come here. I drowned in the ocean after I lost Mahariel, and my connection to Thedas with her. I was... not in my right mind at the time, consumed with grief."

"Suicide?" Nathaniel asks slowly, and I shake my head.

"No, I didn't do it on purpose. It was dark, and there was a storm; the ocean just... swallowed me up. The last thing I remember is going under, the cold and the dark sucking me in, and I-" I glance over at Alistair, not liking to talk about things that involve Zevran right in front of him, but there's no option right now. "I was... reaching for him, for Zevran. Whatever happened, it drew us together because of it. He fished me out of the ocean."

"If you drowned, how are you here?" Nathaniel asks, and I shake my head.

"I have no idea. Next thing I knew, I was laying on the deck of a ship, vomiting seawater. When I woke up again after that, Zevran was reading my journal. Mahariel kept the same one, only she's a better artist than me, so there aren't many pictures in the copy I wrote on my end, just descriptions of them." I blink, thinking about that, and look at Oghren. "That reminds me: have you ever seen her handwriting?"

The question catches him off-guard, and he looks at me suspiciously. "Yes... Why?"

I look back to Nathaniel. "Got anything I can write with?" After a few moments, I've got paper, ink, and quill; on the little table at the end of the couch, I spread out the paper, thinking for a moment, then write.

_Of all the things I've ever lost, the life I held here was the one thing I could not abide. I never meant to leave at all. I believe the strength of my desire to be here, to be next to Zevran, and his grief-stricken wish for me to return to him, pulled my nearly-dead body across the impossible divide between my world and this in answer. Unfortunately, a carpenter doesn't have a candle flame's chance in a stiff wind against the Crows, and so I have had to find my own way, make a life for myself that is better suited to who I actually am. I am not a deceiver._ Silently, I hand it to Oghren, and he goes pale as he reads the flow of my script across the page, the same handwriting I've always had, even as Mahariel.

"This- You could have learned her handwriting," he protests weakly, but I shake my head.

"What did she ever write, besides her journal? Zevran carried that with him; no one saw it after she died. When I woke on the ship, he was reading _my_ copy. And, of course, they're written by the same hand, so the script is the same. That's part of what convinced him that I am myself." He tries to hold onto his resolve to be doubtful, and I growl in exasperation. "Come on, Oghren. Do I need to paint the ink on my face for you to see it? Listen to my voice. Look at my writing, the colour of my eyes, my profile, the shape of my cheekbones, or, hell, look at how Ponka defends me. Do you really think all of it together could possibly be only coincidence? Look, I can even tell you, whoever the artist was who did the portrait in the main hall got the ink wrong. They missed the lines that went over my cheekbone," I say, tracing the pattern with my fingertips over my own cheek, "And they mangled the way it knotted in the centre of my forehead."

Oghren stares at me, finally believing, and I give him a brittle smile. "Warden...?" he asks, voice sort of soft with shock, but I shake my head.

"Not anymore. Just Lily. But yeah. So... hi."

"That was Leliana who did the portrait," Alistair says into the silence, and I blink at him.

"Whaaat? Then why'd she do the ink wrong?" I ask, surprised.

"She didn't want people trying to copy it. You told her once that-"

"It was unique," I finish, nodding. "Tamlen designed it for me, yeah. That makes sense. I'm glad she did that, actually. Remind me to thank her when we get back to Antiva." Alistair nods, and Oghren is so shocked, he's gone silent, just staring at me with the paper still in his hands. "Uh, let's... toss that in the fire; it's not exactly something we want knocking about for people to find," I suggest, and after a moment, he shakes himself and does so. Ponka shifts, keeping himself between me and Oghren even still, but I don't think it's really necessary anymore.

Turning around again, he studies me carefully, critically, and I meet his eyes for a moment, but I've got a headache, and end up rubbing my forehead, wincing.

"If you... _were_... the Hero Mahariel, then... it was you who killed my father," Nathaniel says slowly, and I look up at him, a cold feeling of dread spreading through my stomach. Ah, shit, I didn't think about this.

"Nate, we went over that-" Alistair begins, but Nathaniel cuts him off.

"Yes, we did, and you said it was her doing." His voice is mild, but there is a deep well of sadness behind it. Even the most foul of men could be a good father, I suppose.

Taking another deep breath, I nod. "Yes," I admit. "In the dungeons beneath the estate in Denerim."

He looks at me for a long moment, then asks, "Why?"

I blink. Surely he already knows. Maybe he just wants to hear it from me.

Before I can speak, Alistair makes an exasperated sound, immediately confirming my surmise. "Delilah already-" he begins, but Nathaniel just shakes his head.

"Not the same as hearing it from the woman herself," he says mildly, gaze flicking back to me, and I catch Oghren nodding agreement out of the corner of my eye.

I nod, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry... I can't really be very gentle about this." I exhale slowly, watching him brace himself, then just let him have it. "Because he was a liar, a thief, and a kidnapper, egotistical, arrogant, and power-hungry, who stopped at nothing to take as much as he could for himself." Nathaniel's face steadily closes down as the words seem to hit him like physical blows, and the cold, sick feeling in my stomach intensifies, but I plough on doggedly.

"When I found him, he was surrounded by the blood of the Templars, Wardens, and nobles he'd been torturing, both before and after kidnapping Queen Anora. He showed no remorse, was proud of what he'd done, helping Loghain bring the country to its knees during a time of crisis, slandering the Wardens and forcing us to fight a war on two fronts. He was a murderer and a criminal, and he forced my hand when he drew his blade. I'm sorry to say, I put him down like the rabid animal he had become, whatever he may have been when you knew him. His last words were, 'I deserved more', as though what he had done so far, all the power he had usurped by force and treachery, all the things he'd stolen and surrounded himself with, were still not enough. The man's appetite for destruction was only outweighed by his desire for wealth and power."

There is a long moment of uncomfortable silence.

Nathaniel rubs his forehead, looking grieved and weary, and my heart goes out to him. "Did he suffer?" he asks, finally.

"No. It was over very quickly. That was all he said, because there was no time for more. I'm sorry this is so hurtful to you." I look down at my hands. I'll not apologise for taking him down, but I do feel bad that this is such a difficult conversation for him.

Nathaniel shakes his head, waving off the subject. If what Alistair implies is true, he's had time to become accustomed to the idea of his father's treachery, so perhaps it is just hearing it from me that strikes him so. "What happened to him after that?"

"Uh... well... We had to get Anora out, so... we did that. But I really don't know, because we were caught by Cauthrien. Next thing I know, I'm waking up next to Alistair, mostly naked, on the floor in a filthy cell inside Fort Drakon." I shrug. "I never found out what happened to him. A lot happened after that, and I... I just didn't care, honestly. Sorry. I thought for sure someone would have found him, but if not... then... perhaps that means he was lost to the darkspawn."

Nathaniel stands up abruptly and goes over to the fireplace, bracing his hands on the mantle and looking into the fire for a long time. The only sound in the room is the crackle and hush of the fire. Eventually, I lay my head against Alistair's shoulder and close my eyes for a second. Gods, I'm bushed. His arm sneaks around my hips, pulling me closer, then his hand strays from my waist up to my hair, stroking my head gently.

"Nate," he says quietly, completely changing the subject, "Before all this, I was thinking about staying here for a night or two to resupply in Amaranthine before we go. Is that all right, or should we head to the Crown and Lion?"

Nathaniel waves a dismissive hand. "No, of course you can stay here. The green suite is still open. I'll have the servants bring up your trunks and fill the tub." There is a pause, and then he says, "And seeing the state of... your lady friend... I'll have them bring up dinner, as well."

I blink. Odd... Eh, but if that's what it takes for him to accept me, I'm not gonna argue.

"Thanks," Alistair tells him, automatically reaching down to give me a hand as he rises.

"That sounds absolutely wonderful. Thank you, sir," I tell Nathaniel, completely grateful, and the echo of a smile ghosts around the outside of his mouth as he nods back.

Taking my hands, he smiles at me truly, this time. "I've imagined our meeting many times, but these are strange circumstances. Welcome to the Vigil," he says, a slightly ironic twist to his mouth, but he seems genuine, so I smile back.

I fear this conversation isn't over, but at least he's letting me escape for now. I follow Alistair through the labyrinth of hallways, not really paying attention to where we're going, and find myself in what is to be our room for a time. As soon as the servants have gone, I trudge my way through a bath, then gratefully collapse into the bed. It's soft and plush, there's a feather comforter on top that makes it warm, the sheets are finely woven, the pillows stuffed with feathers as well, and the whole bed smells of sweetgrass and cedar. When Alistair crawls in next to me and wraps me in his heat, I sag against him with a heavy sigh of contentment and surrender almost immediately to the welcoming arms of sweet Morpheus.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"Lily."

I sit up suddenly, eyes focusing on a figure crouched at the end of my bed. After a few moments, the shape resolves itself into Nolan, squatting on the footboard with a pack and a trench coat on, jeans, gloves, boots, a hoodie, and some fingerless gloves. I've been here so long now, he looks strange to my eyes. "You look like a hobo," is the first thing that comes out of my mouth, and he laughs while I cover my face with one hand in embarrassment. "Sorry. What are you doing in my bedroom?"

He looks around, amused, one corner of his mouth turning up. "Your bedroom, huh? Interesting..."

I look around, noticing now that it's not actually dark. We're in my bed, the one I left behind, but the window across the room is Alistair's, and the carpet on the floor from the room I had at my grandmother's house when I was a child. The whole room is cobbled from scraps of memory, and after a moment, I nod. "You know what, it is. It totally is, and you can see why, too, so don't even play." I stick my chin out, eyeing him for a moment, arms crossed over my chest. "You've been gone for a long time," I accuse, maybe a little bit petulant, but it's been eating at me.

Ever since the Incident, I haven't been able to dreamwalk into the Fade.

He nods slowly, taking in my reaction, and arches an eyebrow. "You mad at me now?"

I press my lips together, but I'm practically quivering with indignation. "Where have you _been_? All that, and then you just- You just _go_, and I don't even see you for a month, and I can't even go anywhere, just trapped in my own head like I used to be-"

He smirks and climbs onto the bed with me, stretching out to keep his boots off it. "It's not all fun and games out here, you know. I've got a job to do, and it's fucking difficult. You're not easy, you know?"

I blink. "What? What the hell does that mean?"

There's a pause while he studies me, then just smiles and shakes his head. "Nothin'. Don't think I've been ignoring you; that's kind of impossible."

My brow furrows as I look at him, and he watches me for a moment, cocking his head, gears clicking behind his eyes. It occurs to me that since I spent most of my life not a lucid dreamer, he was the one to help me navigate much of my dream landscape, so he knows me a hell of a lot better than I know him, because he had a larger portion of control over how he presented than I did.

"Nolan, do you remember when you taught me to fly on those little cars with the black umbrellas-" I ask, gesturing in the air with my fingers to illustrate the shape, and he nods, pulling an apple out of his pocket and rubbing it on his shirt. "Can we go back there?"

"Nope. Can't do the same one twice." He glances around then takes a bite of the apple. "I've found someplace better though. They'll never see us there." This phrase, he's said this phrase before. In fact... I've spent a lot of time running after Nolan, holding his hand, or speeding away in a car or flying when we could, but it didn't always work. Sometimes running was the only option. Fleeing into the dark, into woods, down ravines, out of houses or into buildings, hurtling through the clouds at breakneck speeds, and always running from _them_. They who mustn't see us.

"Nolan... Who-"

His eyes start to widen just from the way I'm looking at him, before I even open my mouth; he drops the apple in favour of lunging forward to cover my mouth with his hand, knocking me backward and pinning me to the bed with a startled squeal. "No!" he whispers fiercely, looking around quickly, wild-eyed. "Too many questions attract them, like blood in the water." All is quiet, and he slowly eases off my mouth, looking down at me seriously. "You are always so bloody full of questions." The tone of his voice says he's disgusted with me, but the look on his face says he loves me, and I smile.

"Sorry."

He snorts, as though he hardly believes me to be sincere, but sits back. "I wanted to take you back to the Night Lands, but the boatman wouldn't accept my coin this time, because your misadventure made waves." I remember riding a skiff across a lake to a house on a dark island that was full of corridors and doors, dreaming of meeting my grandmother right after she passed, and stare at him, trying to pull into line the facts that I'm lucid, my dreams were always more real than I thought, and I seem to have been visiting the Fade since I was a small girl, long before I ever left Earth. No wonder I'm here now. Where else could I have gone?

Nolan's head snaps up, as though he's heard something, and he turns. "Ah, Lily. Too smart for our own good. Never stop thinking, do you?" Turning back to me, he's rushing forward toward me with his hands out. "Run," he says, pushing me backward, and the bed is just not there anymore. I move in slow-motion, torpid. He grabs me around the waist, tossing me forward, and I hit the ground running. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm running down an unfamiliar hallway. I was thinking of that house. I need to be someplace else. Someplace safe. Grandma's house. Between one step and the next, I go from carpet over stone to sand and rocks, and skid to a halt. Looking around, I see the familiar scene of the concrete sea wall, the large boulders grouped by the end, the stairs leading up to the yard with the raspberry brambles and the apple tree, the swingset and the rhododendrons, patch of grass and beech trees for climbing.

"This memory is so well-worn, it's got a groove in it," he says, and I find we're sitting on the swingset. He's got his apple back, and takes another bite out of it. "Won't be safe here for long, now that you're actually here."

"Wh-" I catch myself on the point of asking a question and stop, looking up at the apple tree, and try to blank my mind. "I'd like to have an apple," I say, hopping down.

Something about that makes me stop dead in my tracks, the world ringing like a gong around me.

"Oh shit," Nolan says. "Remember that," he says quickly, darting forward to grab my hand again, and we run forward. I'm losing my coherency; I'm not sure what's going on anymore.

What's so important about apples?

"Nolan, I'm losing my mind," I say and he laughs, but it's a dark and bitter thing. I see us heading toward darkness, a tunnel of some kind, or maybe travelling on into the night of another place, and bow my head, closing my eyes so my expectations won't change the destination he's got in mind.

"You need to find it," he says, and I realise we've stopped. I can hear the sound of crickets, and open my eyes. We're standing on the edge of a pool in a moonlit garden that smells of sweet lavender and rosemary, the vault of the sky reflecting in the pool, stars and fat gibbous moon hanging in the water like drowned illusions. "A garden that doesn't affect your allergies," he says, and I smile.

"It's beautiful. I love it," I murmur, moving amongst the plants, enjoying the cool crisp of the night at the end of a hot day. Standing at the edge of the pool, I touch the water, my reflection distorted and unknowable. "It smells like lavender and rosemary," I say, and there's that gong again that stops my heart with terror, suddenly turning all the shadows of the plush night sinister.

"_Shit!_" Nolan says, rushing toward me again, and I shriek this time, because I'm becoming truly frightened by now.

"What's going on?" I shout into the wind of our flight.

"You keep stepping on traps!"

"What the hell does that even mean? Wait - rosemary and lavender. That's Mahariel. "I want to wake up!" How do I even do that?

Everything is blurry, flashes of light green and white, as though we are moving into daylight, maybe trees, and I see someone standing there, a blurry figure. In the same second, Nolan's eyes come rushing up on mine, filling my vision with their intense determination.

I wake suddenly, heart in my throat, adrenaline rush sending my blood thundering in my ears, but my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, the scream choked off before it can even begin by my lack of air. I clutch the blanket for a moment, taking a deep, shaking breath, and Alistair snores right in my ear, scaring the life out of me. Clapping a hand over my face, trying to peel myself off the ceiling, I decide I'm not going to sleep again any time soon, and the room is feeling far too small right now.

Easing from the bed, I grab my cloak from the hook by the fireplace and wrap it around my shoulders. Ponka lifts his head as I near the door, looking up at me askance. I shake my head, laying a finger to my lips. "I'm just going outside for some air. I'll be right back," I whisper, shooing him away from the door, then head out into the hallway. I was half-dead with exhaustion, but I remember there was a door to an outer causeway at the end of the hall, and what I need right now is to be outside. It was just a dream, right? It didn't even make any sense.

The rain plasters my hair to my head and washes my face, the familiar tang of salt, sea, and sky mingling in my nose, on my skin, on my tongue. The setting sun casts long shadows, peeking across the horizon from under cover of the storm, promising clear skies by morning. I breathe deeply, the sensations of the familiar soothing some of my shakiness and fear away. The cold, wet stone beneath my feet is a comfort I didn't expect to find, a reminder of places long gone from me, and I feel the tension slipping out of my shoulders as I focus on just being, just existing in the moment.

Gradually, I become aware that there's someone near, and I turn suddenly, eyes snapping open to find Oghren standing silent sentinel, looking out toward the ocean. My heart leaps into my throat, but he doesn't make any moves toward me.

Where the hell did he come from? I didn't even hear him! What is he doing just standing there? Looking around, I realise that I'm in direct line of sight from the courtyard; he could have seen me from just about anywhere.

"How can you do it?" he asks, eventually, gravelly voice so low I almost don't catch what he says.

Taking a step back, I move under the nominal cover of the eaves and lean against the wall. "Do what?" I ask cautiously.

"You- I never would have pegged you for a liar, is all."

I stare at him, mystified, as he refuses to look at me, staunchly turned to the north. "I don't think I quite understand what you're on about," I tell him, weary, rubbing at my forehead and the threat of renewed headache.

"You. I hear you. I know you're her- you. I don't have to understand it to see it, even though it makes no sodding sense."

"Yeah, well. That's magic for you. I've come to loathe it, honestly."

Oghren snorts and grunts. "Ehhh... Can't say I blame you." This admission is clearly begrudging, but it comes with a note of understanding behind it. After a moment, he continues, "But if I take you for true, then you're lying about the boy, and he deserves better."

I blink, beginning to feel uneasy, because I've had that same thought, myself. "What...? Why would you think that?"

He finally turns to look at me, and his eyes are still cold, but there's something tired around the edges. "I've seen you in love. This isn't it."

This strikes me straight through the heart. I grimace, wincing, and glance away, looking out into the thunderstorm over the bay. "I can see why you think that," I admit eventually, nodding slowly, then take a deep breath. "You're wrong, though. It's just different. I know you know what I'm talking about, too." I look back at him, catching his eyes for a moment. "Leliana told me you're a father. It's different, isn't it? They're not the same woman." I can see it in his face, he knows what I'm talking about, and I nod. "And he's not the same man. That's what makes it work - I'm not the same woman I was, either. Softer in some ways, harder in others." I put my hood up and pull my cloak closer about me, rolling my feet to the sides to stand on the outside edges, conserving heat - a trick I learned as a very small girl, living in a state whose weather patterns ran toward cold, rain, and fog for nearly ten months out of the year. "You struck a nerve, you know. I _have_ always loved him... but I didn't need to tell him that for him to know it."

Oghren's head turns sharply as he looks back at me, eyes narrowed with suspicion again. "Eh?"

I blush and look down at my feet. "We survived a lot together before we met Zevran. There was- It got really complicated, really quickly. By the time you joined us, we'd mostly sorted ourselves, but it was ugly for a minute. Alistair and I argued... a lot... Part of it-" I glance over at him again, self-conscious. "Look, I know we were never really fast friends. I took a lot of things for granted, then, but I kind of had to, in order to continue hurtling forward. I did you a disservice, though, because you were always a good friend to me, and a strong ally. I'm sorry about that. I know you were - _are_ - closer to him than you are to me. So- So I just want to say- You don't have to worry about that part, okay?"

He eyes me again, and I shift awkwardly. "I do love him," I repeat. "It doesn't look the same, because it's not, but that's okay. He-" A loud crash of thunder cuts me off, heralding a redoubling of the storm's efforts, and we finally admit defeat, ducking back inside. We head down to the other end of the hall, to a great room where the fire is still burning. I hang up my dripping cloak and Oghren silently hands me a flask before taking a seat. I open it and sniff it experimentally, keeping it far from my nose at first, but it turns out to be simple whiskey, and he grunts as I take a grateful swig and hand it back.

Standing next to the flames, holding out my hands, with my back to him, it's easier to speak of the things that hurt. "Look, I really don't like talking about this, because... it's a wound that... hasn't healed properly. But... Since you recognized me, I feel like... I owe you an explanation of this, at the very least. Let me put it to you this way: Mahariel came from the earth, and Zevran was fire, and Alistair is water. When the sun warms the earth, it blooms with life, but Alistair was like a flood; he drowned me when I was living as her. However... _I_ come from a place much like right here, right now, and according to the lore of my land, I was born under the sign of the fish, so water is my home. You can't drown a fish. Fire and water may make steam, but what is healthier for the fish? I decided the concept of 'home' was far superior to being 'dinner', and that's what it came down to. Once I let go of the idea that I'm not a shark, I've been disgustingly happy." I realise I'm looking vaguely in the direction of our room and blush, glancing back at Oghren. "So is he. We've changed each other, and for the better, I'd like to think."

"Then what's got you out of bed?" he asks, passing me the flask again, and I drink. That's probably three shots now. I take another swig. Make it four. Passing it back, Oghren eyes me, and I shake my head.

"Nightmares. Got a lot of things rattling around in my head that I'd like to forget, rear up in the night and wake me terrified and nearly screaming." I wave a hand. "I can't remember now what had me so frightened. The shadows were dangerous, and... I don't know. Someone's eyes, far too close." I shrug awkwardly. "Sounds stupid to say it aloud, really, but it woke me. I know there was a lot more to it, but it's faded. I hate that, though... always feels like I'm forgetting very important things."

"Hmph. Maybe you are. The Fade's a funny place. All kinds of nasty things happen out there. I don't envy you." I look down at him, and he is staring into the fire, something far away in his eyes, then he shakes himself and looks up, catching me at it. "Eh?" He holds up the flask, and I take another shot. Ahhh, there it is, that fuzzy floating feeling.

"Yeah... that's totally reassuring. Thanks." I give him a wry smile, and after a moment, he chuckles.

"All right, well, that's life for you. No assurances anywhere, are there. Nope. Only thing you got is one day, you'll return to the stone. Or the earth, or whatever it is you do."

"True enough. There's a thought to warm a soul on a cold night," I say, and he chuckles again.

"I'm no tale-spinner, Warden. You'll have to look elsewhere for that." My breath catches and I cover my mouth, wondering if he said that on purpose, or just fell into an old habit of calling me that because I look and sound like her. Oghren belches loudly, laughing at it, then stands up. "Time to get moving. Walls don't guard themselves." And with that, he turns and heads back down the hallway, path slowly weaving from one side to the other.

I hate it when people call me that. It makes me feel like an imposter.

But sometimes, secretly, I do think about it.

Mahariel survived the Joining... and she's me. Or I was her. But wouldn't I?

No, pointless and stupid conjecture, of course, but that little voice whispers in the corner of my mind sometimes.

After a moment, I gather my cloak up and go back to the bedroom. I stand there in the doorway for a moment, torn with indecision. I don't want to go back to sleep, I really don't. I'm afraid whatever it was that jolted me awake before is going to come for me again. There's a nebulous feeling of dread, something I've forgotten, because- Those eyes. Nolan...

I hate the Fade.

I hang the cloak up by our own fireplace, even though it's banked and nearly out, and climb into bed, leaving the door cracked open for the light. Alistair wraps his arm around me immediately, then frowns, brow furrowing.

"You're wet," he grumbles, tugging at my nightgown. "Off." I sit up, obliging him, letting him pull it off over my head, then gasp as the heat of his skin against my own, cold and clammy, feels like burning. He winces. "Ah! And cold! What did you do, roll in a puddle?" Coming more awake now, his voice loses some of its mumble, and he pulls my hair away from my face so I can't hide from him.

"Just nightmares. Went outside for a minute. Afraid to go back to sleep now," I murmur, pressing my face into his shoulder, realising how icy my cheeks are from the aura of his body heat alone. He hisses, wincing, but pulls me closer.

"Maker's breath... Did you have to do it half-naked? You're trying to punish me, aren't you. This is about the mushroom," he complains, teasing me, and I giggle. "See, I knew it. Wicked woman." He yawns, and I close my eyes, letting the tension and fear flow away. I'm safe here. Whatever happens, anything magical, he'll stop it. It'll be okay. I can sleep now.


	34. Unfortunate Epiphanies

The city of Amaranthine is beautiful, full of stone buildings that crowd one upon the next, a thriving community that brings the farm right into the city itself, a pleasant harmony of vegetable gardens and goats right next to city streets teeming with the multitudes passing by.

As we approach a shop selling cheese and sausages, Alistair stops and looks around at a woman's voice calling out, "Commander!" A young woman with a baby on her hip bustles up to us, basket laden with goods hanging from her other arm, dark hair falling from a messy bun. Her face is flushed with excitement as she smiles up at him, not even noticing me. "Commander Alistair! You've returned! Will you be taking over the keep again?"

He smiles at her kindly, but shakes his head. "No, I'm just in town for the day. I'll be leaving in the morning," he says, wincing as her face falls. "Have things been bad since Nathaniel took over?" he asks, and it's her turn to shake her head quickly, eyes widening.

"No! Only... he doesn't come down to the city the way you did. The city misses you." Before he can respond to that, she turns and walks away.

"Huh. Wasn't expecting that," he says, bemused, then shrugs. Inside the shop, the vendor practically falls all over himself trying to get us anything we want, because he recognises Alistair from the siege.

"I saw you fighting in the streets," he tells Alistair, wrapping up the sausages we insisted on paying for. "You kept them from getting into my house. Saved me, my wife, and our two boys, you did. Glad I can thank you for it now." Handing over the package, he pulls down a wheel of cheese and begins to wrap that, as well. "Are you back now? Will we see you at the Crown and Lion?"

Alistair shakes his head. "No, I live in Antiva now, running the Warden base there. I'm only in town for the day."

"Ahh," the vendor says, disappointed and nodding, giving Alistair the cheese. "I hope they appreciate you, ser," he says, and bids us a good day as we leave the shop

A gaggle of children run by, chasing a leather ball down the street, whooping and laughing. Alistair watches after them, smiling, his arm tightening about my waist, and I bite my lip. He's thinking about it, about us. We'll have our own little monster to chase balls about someday... hopefully.

Everywhere we go, people stop him, asking him if he's come back, how long he means to stay, and Alistair knows at least half of them by name. I have to admit, he's pretty hard to miss, with the big double gryphon shield on his back. There's more than a little curiosity about me, as well. He simply introduces me as his 'lady friend Cassia', dodging all other inquiries as to our relationship while still managing to give off the impression that we're together. He doesn't even notice it, but he's the subject of more than one heated or wistful glance, and for me either daggers or envy. And not just from women.

Climbing the stairs to an upper level of the city, I'm winded and exhausted. "Don't these people know we invented hills a long time ago?" I grouse, and Alistair laughs.

"Sure, but invaders find all the stairs just as tiresome as you do," he says, making perfect bloody sense and doing nothing for my present mood. He pauses as I scowl, stopping at about two-thirds of the way up, and I stand next to him, chest heaving, looking down at all the long way we've come. It's like the old Pike Place Market stairs, which I only braved a few times because of their steepness and length, but they've got them all over the damned city. It's a nightmare of endless stairs. "Hey," he says softly, getting my attention, and I look up at him. The concern on his face evaporates all of my querulousness and I rub my forehead. "We're almost to the Crown and Lion, and we can get something to eat there," he says.

I nod, pushing the strands of hair off my face. The oppressiveness of the day only adds to my crankiness; the air is warm and close, high humidity and relatively high heat, so it has my shirt plastered to my back, my sweat won't evaporate, and I feel sticky and gross. Worst of all, I didn't have any inkling the day would go like this, because the air at the Vigil was crisp and cool when we left this morning, so I wore too heavy of a shirt, and didn't bind up my hair. It lays in a damp curtain over my back and clings to the sweat on my face, making me even hotter.

"What I really need is a hair-stick and a bath," I tell him. "And a change of clothes," I add, pulling my tunic free of my stomach and flapping it a bit to get the air moving underneath. Unfortunately, this calls attention to the fact that the leather of my bra has become saturated with sweat, and the underside of my boobs is a cesspit, despite the fact that the leather is lined with linen. I groan, continuing doggedly up the stairs.

"That can probably be arranged," he says amiably, and I eye him.

"How can you not be dying? It's like the sky wants to crush me to the pavement."

He shrugs a shoulder, not meeting my eyes, looking up to the top of the staircase, so close now. His voice is deceptively casual, the way he tossed off his self-deprecating 'raised by dogs' comment. "Wet's better than fire. Ugh, or _ice_. The metal on your armour just... _sticks_ to any exposed skin." He shudders.

Good gods. I could kick myself. Complaining about stairs and the weather to a man who's stood in front of demon's fire. I bite my lip and follow him the rest of the way in silence.

The door to the Crown and Lion is so nondescript, I don't even see it until we're right on top of it, but the riot of sound that comes out when Alistair opens the door is unmistakable. Ah crap, small space, full of strangers, very hot, lots of noise-

_No, just breathe._

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes for just a second as I rest my hand on Alistair's arm, following him through. Being behind a man so broad-shouldered and tall has its advantages, and I'm able to just let him thread our way across the room to the bar. As we pass, I keep my eyes on our stuff, checking the faces around me for anyone I might know or be recognised by, but no-one seems familiar. That's a relief.

The other advantage is that I can do this pretty much with impunity, because several people in the bar know who he is, and they're all looking at him. Of course... We've been seeing random people in the street periodically, but... then again, all those people haven't been drinking.

It takes a little while, but the bar eventually settles down, and we take a table on the upper floor balcony area.

"They didn't have tables up here, last time I was in," Alistair remarks as we sit.

I look at the crowd on the main floor doubtfully, shaking my head. "There are a ton of people in here; I can see why there are more tables now."

He nods. "There are a lot of new people in the city. Refugees from the bannorn poured into Denerim and Amaranthine after the Blight, once people felt safe enough to come out of hiding. I imagine Highever and Gwaren experienced a similar influx; Redcliffe certainly did."

I look up just in time to catch an extremely dirty look from the waitress as she brings us two mugs of ale, compliments of one of Alistair's fans. I frown, not sure what to make of that as she turns away; I look to Alistair, but he's waving to whomever it is that sent the ale, looking down into the taproom. "That waitress just gave me the evillest look," I tell him, leaning closer so my voice doesn't carry.

His brow furrows as he looks around, finally locating the woman in question. "Hmmm... Odd..."

"Is it? The handsome, kind, valiant, and _single_, Warden Commander who saved the city and then left, next shows up with a lady friend in tow?" I shake my head, feeling a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. "I think she's another Serena."

"What? No..." he protests, watching her again, and I giggle.

"Yeah, I think so. We should swap plates in front of her to see if she freaks out."

He looks back at me, confused. "What? Why?"

I laugh; he really has no idea. "Because if she spit in _my_ food, she'll be really upset to think that it went to you instead, and she won't be able to keep it off her face."

He looks at me blankly, then the confusion is back. "Why are you so convinced that the people who give us food will spit in it?"

"Because I've been a waitress before, and I know how it works. Difficult or rude customers, someone's asshole ex: their food's not safe. It's a way to get revenge, and they never know it. You'd be really, really horrified and disgusted if I told you some of the things that went on in kitchens I've worked in. Just- Just watch her when we trade plates, and see what she does."

Sure enough. The sudden widening of her eyes and the pause while she debates what to do give her away as soon as Alistair's plate meets my hands; he gives her a hard look that turns her scarlet when he hands back the meal that was to have been mine. As she scurries off to the kitchen, tail between her legs, Alistair looks back at me, bemused. "I really had no idea things could be that bad."

I shrug. "You've never had to worry about it, I'm sure. You're not the sort to attract that kind of attention."

He arches an eyebrow as a different waitress brings him a clean plate, giving us a polite and professional smile. I look at her carefully, but nothing in her demeanor suggests that this one is tainted. "And you are?" he asks, picking up the thread of the conversation as soon as the waitress has moved on.

I shake my head. "Not usually; I know how to treat people, so I don't normally have this problem. I've never been the kind of person to taint someone's food, either, but I've known those who were, and did. I just know how it goes."

The food is decent, if a little bland, but the ale is actually quite good, which is saying a lot since I really don't like ale. More importantly, it fills my belly, which takes away some of my crankiness, a couple of glasses of water doing wonders, as well.

When we step back outside, there is a small crowd gathered around a space on the ground underneath a tree. A healer is bent over the leg of a child who must have fallen out of it, Templar guarding them off to the side.

"Lily, stop that," Alistair murmurs, a warning note to his voice, and I look up at him.

"Stop what?"

In my peripheral, I see the Templar lift his head and look around, scanning the crowds. Alistair takes my arm, pulling me further away. "You don't feel that?" he asks, searching my face, but I have no idea what he's talking about.

"Feel what?"

Suddenly he grabs me, pushing me up against the wall in the mouth of an alleyway, making me squeak with fear, the way his face transforms with grim determination, but all he does is lean in and kiss me. The fiery heat of his mouth sears my tongue, and all my small hairs stand on end as a curious rush spreads through me. It's very much like that shivering dust feeling I had with Zevran, only instead of resonating between us, it simply flows outward from my skin, not returning, leaving me feeling strangely... empty.

I stare up at him in shock as he pulls back, looking serious as I've ever seen him. "What the hell was that?" My voice is more than a little breathy and high-pitched.

He tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "I drained your mana," he says, slowly and deliberately, watching me carefully.

I blink. "Mana? I have mana?"

"Mm. Not at the moment, but we need to get you away from the Templars before it comes back." Taking my arm again, he tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow, leading me down the stairs back toward the main gates. The Templar guarding the healer, still scanning the crowd, shrugs and turns back to his mage, apparently deciding that the one he has already in hand is more than enough work.

Magic. I have magic. Anders told me, Ferrilin and Zevran told me, but I didn't really believe. It couldn't be anything major. I mean, how does that even make any sense? I wasn't born here.

The dust. That's... _my_ magic?

A terrible feeling of dread and panic settles into my breast. I'm not even aware of the stairs, or where we're going, as Alistair threads our way through the crowds, keeping me close to his side.

I nearly stumble when I realise another thing.

Could I have... _created_... the chain...?

No.

No, surely not. No, that's just the magic of this world. Maybe it used my own force to do it, but that wasn't me. I didn't do this on purpose.

_Oh, but you wanted very, very badly to be tied to him._

"I feel ill," I confess to Alistair, my stomach flipping, and he nods.

"That can happen," he murmurs. "Sorry about that. I couldn't think what else to do; you were leaking."

"Leaking..." I echo weakly. "That's... not good."

"No."

He moves us quickly through the city, seemingly relaxed in his pace, but we cover ground so fast that we're walking out the gate in just a handful of minutes. All the while, my mind races over everything I know about mages and magic. Why didn't Wintersbreath activate under my hand? I'm not strong enough for it - must be. Oh shit. Just a spark, just enough to be a problem, just enough to make it dangerous- Oh gods, just enough to get me lobotomised. I remember reading something... mages with only a spark are too dangerous.

They get made Tranquil.

My fingers flex into claws at the thought, and I look sharply up at Alistair. We're well beyond the city now, the keep a distant spire at the top of a long hill. No one is quite near enough to us to overhear me. "Alistair-" The hard line of his mouth makes me hesitate when he turns to look at me, and I bite my lip. "Are you mad at me?" This is not the question I had intended to ask, but at the moment, it's a little more pressing.

There is a pause, then something around his eyes crumples a little, and he shakes his head. "I- No. It's not your fault."

"What do we do?"

He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and doesn't say anything for a while. He's quiet so long, I become lost in my thoughts, startling when he speaks next. "The only mage here I know well enough to trust is Velanna. I'll speak to her, see what she says. She's Dalish, so she might have insights that you wouldn't get anywhere else."

I nod, relieved. "That's a good idea." After a few moments, another thought occurs to me. "How much, exactly, do you trust this woman?"

He glances at me sidelong, brow furrowed. "Enough to tell her a secret like this... why?"

"Do you think she can be trusted with knowing who I am? She'll be the only Dalish I've met since coming here, and if she's going to help me with this problem, considering what Ferrilin and Anders have seen in me, I might end up having to tell her at least some of it."

Alistair nods, about to say something, and then stops, coming to a halt in the middle of the road. He looks off to the side at a copse of trees, then abruptly turns to me, taking my face in his hands. "Run," he says softly, firmly, and completely serious. Not a heartbeat later, I hear a growl from the wood behind him; sudden understanding seizes me and I turn, bolting up the road. Behind me, I hear the sound of Alistair's sword clearing the sheath, a louder growl from the wood, several pinging sounds as arrows glance off of Alistair's armour or shield. I don't look back. I hear him shouting at them, the growling demonic voices, screaming, the crunch of blade through flesh and bone, and I don't look back. I run.

I'm just shy of a mile from the keep, and it's all uphill.

I haul ass as fast as I can, but I'm not made for long distances, and I'm already tired out from hiking around the city. Even on the wings of an adrenaline rush in my fear for Alistair and of the darkspawn, I cannot sprint even half the way. I am heaving and practically frothing at the mouth when a few guards run up to meet me as I near the gate. I stagger to a halt, leaning on the quickly offered arm of a Warden to prop myself up as I clutch at my side. I gesture wildly over my shoulder, down the road. "Alistair- Darkspawn- Alone!"

They exchange glances, all of them suddenly on their toes, one of them already taking off down the road.

"Velanna," one says, darting off.

"Sigrun," says the second, going in another direction. The other two nod at each other, then run after the first one. I trudge onward toward the keep, making it to the gate and stepping inside to lean against a wall for a minute, catching my breath.

Yet another Warden comes up to me as I'm wiping my forehead on my sleeves, still wheezing. Good gods, I am way more out of shape than I thought. "What's happening?" he asks, in the official tones of someone used to being in charge, so between breaths, I give him a better explanation, looking down the road anxiously.

"Alistair's down there, alone. Two Wardens have gone after him, two others looking for people, I think. They said 'Velanna' and 'Sigrun'. There were darkspawn in a copse of trees, sounded like genlocks and hurlocks. They had at least two archers. Don't know if they had any alphas or emissaries; didn't look back, just ran. Didn't hear any chanting, but if they were at range, I wouldn't have." I shake my head. "Must be a nest." This is when I turn back to look at the man, and he's looking at me like I've just grown a second head. "What?" That's a lot of technical information for a random supposed 'lady' to have. "Oh. Uh..." And I can't pass it off as things I'd know as the Commander's girlfriend, either.

Fortunately, before the guy can start asking a bunch of questions, two women come running up to the gate. I start edging away when his focus shifts.

"Darkspawn?" the dwarven woman asks, practically bouncing with glee. The other looks more composed, but equally urgent. I bet she's Velanna, judging by her tattoos. That would make the dwarf Sigrun... and it looks like she's a Duster, too. No matter. Warden, now.

"Commander Alistair," the guard I've been talking to says. "Been alone for at least ten minutes," he adds, and I hear the sound of booted feet retreating at a quick pace. Unfortunately, he hasn't forgotten me, and is suddenly next to me before I reach the stairs back to the keep.

"Wait just a moment now," he says, catching my elbow gently, but firmly enough that I have to turn. "How did you know all that? You're not a Warden."

Oh shit... "Uh... no..." I prevaricate, mind racing. "I-"

"Ah, Captain Garevel, just the man I was looking for," a gravelly voice declares, interrupting me, and the guard turns around to find Oghren behind him. "I saw Sigrun suiting up in a hurry. What gives? Some kind of action you're leaving me out of?"

Oh shit. Captain? This guy is Nathaniel's Marco. Now I've got his attention, I'm not likely to shake it. He looks warily between us before responding. "This woman came to report Warden Commander Alistair under attack by darkspawn. What I find curious is that she knew their types, and how they tend to group, but she is _not_ a Warden."

Oghren looks at me for half a beat, then says, "Uh-huh. Travelled with us during the Blight. Personal friend of Mahariel's."

Garevel's brow furrows, and I pull my arm from his hand, trying to look more dignified and less scared shitless. "Really? I've never heard mention of a Lady Cassia in the tales of the Blight Companions. _You've_ never mentioned her."

Oghren grunts again and shrugs. "Mhm, and you're supposing I've told you everything by now, huh?"

"Well, no, but none of the other tales mention her-"

I step in a little closer. The best lies always contain a grain of truth. Lowering my voice, I murmur, "That's because 'Lady Cassia' is an alias. Please stop trying to blow my cover."

He struggles with that for a moment, long enough for there to be just the right amount of pause that allows me to make a polite half-bow and turn. He doesn't stop me before Oghren begins distracting him again; I don't look back, and don't stop until I've put a door between me and the overly-curious Captain. What I could really use now is a good, stiff drink. But first, I need to discover what happened to Alistair, because I could find myself in an extremely precarious position here, in short order.

Technically... I'm an apostate.

Ooh, now there's a thought that sends a sheet of ice down my spine. Everything's going to hell in a handbasket really, really quickly. Why did I think this was going to be a good idea?

I need to get someplace where I can see the courtyard. Quickly, I make my way to the causeway outside of our room and crouch down behind the pediment, so I won't be so obvious. I really don't want to answer questions from random Wardens, even if this guy _is_ the captain of Nathaniel's guard. It occurs to me that if something happens to Alistair, I'm a long way from Antiva, and I've only got Oghren here - a tenuous ally at best.

_Wise Athena, please let my lover return home to me safe and whole._

Strong as Alistair is, if I'm found out by the wrong people, he won't be able to protect me from going to the Tower.

_Strong as he is, strong as he is..._ Sudden visions assail me of Alistair laying on the ground in a puddle of blood, surrounded by darkspawn bodies, and I cover my mouth with a shaking hand. I'll never feel like it wasn't my fault, if something terrible befell him.

_Oh gods..._

I watch the courtyard, the gate, and I wait.

And wait.

The longer nothing happens, the more wound up I get.

"Ya gotta know by now, how long it takes to clear out a nest," a gravelly voice behind me says, making me jump, heart in my throat, and I turn around quickly to find Oghren standing there, looking down at me. "Hiding here's gonna take you all afternoon."

I rub at my face with both hands, leaning against the stone. "Well, I really didn't want to face more questioning by Garevel. As I recall, it could take a couple of hours, but... time runs funny between here and there. I lost a whole year here in just three days. How long do you suppose they'll be gone?"

He grunts and shrugs. "Could be back in a few minutes, could be gone until long after sundown. Either way, sitting here keeping watch isn't gonna bring 'em back any faster. You can't avoid the Captain forever; he's all afire with curiosity, wants to know who you are. He's in there talking to the Commander right now." At my grimace, he nods. "Not lookin' so good. Mad at me for distracting him long enough for you to escape." Ah, so he _did_ do it on purpose. He chuckles, and I smell the distinct odor of onions, garlic, unbrushed teeth, and beer. Instinctively, I instantly hold my breath, turning my face aside and exhaling slowly, trying to be politic. Suddenly, certain things make sense.

I shake my head, trying to get back on track. "Uh, yeah, thanks for that, by the way." I look over my shoulder toward the gate again, but still nothing. "I feel like I should be out there," I mutter.

"Uh-huh. Not so easy being the one left behind to wait, eh?" I swivel back around quickly to look up at him, suddenly feeling horrible.

"Oghren, I'm sorry. If I could have taken everyone with me, I would have. There were plenty of times where I wished for your axe, but... I tried to be fair. You were with me for most of the Deep Roads." I can't help it, I'm still watching for Alistair. Still nothing.

"Not at Caridin's Cross."

I wince, humming under my breath. "Yeah... I know. I didn't make that mistake twice, though. I still can't believe Zev did that."

There's a pause, and I look back up at him. Something hard glitters in his eyes, and I'm taken aback, but his voice is still mild and normal when he speaks. "Yeah? What's that?"

I have no idea what's going on in this man's head. "Jumped in front of me. Leaving you behind nearly cost all of us our lives. I didn't realise Wynne couldn't handle it. I thought, well, she was a healer, you know? We were better off with lots of poultices and kits, honestly. After that, I marched us straight back to Orzammar to trade her in for you."

Still nothing at the gates. Oghren grunts again. "Eh. Well, now I _know_ you can't be lying."

"What? Why?" What'd I just say?

"Tales don't tell that part. Oh, they talk about the assassin jumping in front of you - heroic deed and all that - but what they don't tell is how dark and bloody it all was, and they don't tell the part where you were covered in soot and fit to carve stone with your tongue alone, and never took her with you again until we left Orzammar."

I am caught flat-footed again, looking up at him. "They don't? I should think it'd be obvious, if none of the other tales of Orzammar have her in them."

He shakes his head. "Nah. Tales of the Hero's weaknesses got buried under all the 'hero' business, except for when it makes for a good story about one of the others."

I grimace. "Good grief. What am I supposed to be, ten feet tall and breathing fire?"

"Lightning bolts from your eyes," he corrects, amused, and I make a sour face.

"Seriously? Oh, right... because of Wynne. Hmh. Not bad for a half-mad, wild Dalish, eh?"

He chuckles, shaking his head, and I look over my shoulder for the hundredth time. "There's something I wanted to ask you," he says, at length, "but I never got the chance. Especially now that you said that." There's a pause, and I look back at him. "Why'd you choose her over me and the pike-twirler, on the Final Day?" he asks, and it takes me a moment to realise he means Alistair.

"Uh... Well, I thought one Warden should stay at the gate, and it couldn't be me, and Riordan was meant to be the one taking care of the archdemon, so that just left Alistair. And if anyone was going to be able to back him up against a horde of darkspawn and keep him alive, it would have been you and Sten. Going up Drakon, through the city, the idea was to lay low and be fast. It didn't work out that way, of course, but that was the plan. Every inch was hard won. The place was crawling. Ogres everywhere. Spellcasters. We were so low on poultices by the time we got to the roof, I wasn't sure they were going to make it." I shift uncomfortably, squirming, hating this subject more than any other. "Uh. Anyway, I knew with the three of you there at the gate, the line would hold."

"Mmm- Uhoh, here comes trouble," Oghren mutters, interrupted in whatever he might have had to say next, but my relief is short-lived. I look up to find Garevel coming toward us. Nowhere to hide, now.

Great. When it rains, it pours. He stops in front of me, completely unamused by my escape, and I have to admit, looking up at a tall guy like him, dressed all in armour, is a pretty intimidating thing.

"The Commander wishes to see you," he says. "If you will follow me, I'll take you to him." I glance at Oghren, but he just waves cheerfully. I'm on my own, it would seem. The day keeps getting better and better.

Rising, I dust off my bum and straighten my sticky shirt. "Okay," I agree simply, reminded again as I shift just how nasty and sweaty I feel. He seems surprised, but I just give him a bland smile and follow him to a small office on the main floor of the keep, just off the main hall.

Nathaniel is sitting at a tidy desk, writing something that looks official. He glances up, gesturing to a chair as I enter. "That will be all, Garavel," he says. The captain pauses, then simply nods and salutes.

"Yes, Commander." And then he's gone, the door closing softly behind him.

There is an awkward silence while he finishes the letter, signing it at the bottom. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he murmurs, lighting a taper from the lamp nearby so he can melt sealing wax. "I didn't expect him to find you so quickly. Tales of your prowess at hiding and subterfuge have reached far."

I laugh softly. "I have the same heart, mind, and soul, but I've got a completely different skill set, now. Not so good at hiding anymore... obviously. I can't go anywhere without people recognising me. I never expected my face to cause me so many problems."

He smiles wryly. "I think I have an idea of what you mean."

There's another uncomfortable pause while he pulls out a decanter from a cabinet. "Do you like whiskey?" he asks, and I smile.

"Yes, completely." He pours me a good amount, maybe three shots, into a tumbler and passes it to me.

"So, I hear that you found some darkspawn," he says, and I nod, taking a gulp and closing my eyes as the whiskey burns down my throat. I repeat what I told Garevel, and he nods. "I've sent a few more Wardens after him, but I'm sure he'll be back shortly." I glance up at him again, having retreated into my cup, and he smiles. "You look nervous," he comments, making me blush a bit.

"Well. I know how fragile our lives can be. I'm worried. I know he's capable, but he was alone for a long time. I'll worry until he comes back." I turn the cup in my hands, seeing him nod again out of the corner of my eye.

I'll keep worrying anyway, even after he comes back. Now is the moment when I remember what we'd been talking about before the darkspawn interrupted us. That shivering dust feeling that Alistair took from me. Mana. _My_ mana.

Oh.

Mages go to the Fade. They remember their dreams, and their dreams are real.

Demons are attracted to mages.

Zev said he never put any magic in the pouch. I didn't even think about what that meant.

_That shivering dust feeling..._

My mana.

When it assailed me, all that tempest and desire, that's why it only affected me, why it felt like the time had never passed. That emotion was strong enough to _create_... to _cause_.

_My life, tied to his..._

That's why I'm here. I was thinking exactly that when I got swept out. That tempest, that storm, that powerful need... a desire so complete, a will so complete, an absolute clarity of vision that had him fixed so perfectly in my mind's eye, I actually reached him. I created this before I ever came here.

_Mahariel's journal..._

"Now you look like you've seen a ghost," Nathaniel murmurs, and I look up sharply, startled out of my frightening train of thought.

I shake myself, realising I'm sitting here tongue-tied. "Thinking about the darkspawn led to thoughts of Kinloch." That's not at all far from the truth.

I am not a victim of circumstance. I've been the one orchestrating my circumstances all along.

Even though I didn't know it.

Oh gods, how do I get myself out of this? How do I fix this?

I don't want to be a mage!

"Are you all right?" he asks, and I realise I'm staring at him, wide eyes locked to his.

I shake my head, setting the whiskey down. "No... actually. I feel ill." I look around the room, and there isn't a single window in it. "Uh, if we could- If we could go outside, or if I can just go-" I close my eyes, taking a deep breath as the air seems to grow closer, telling myself that the stifling is just an illusion. "I need air," I say, standing up. Turning, I cannot even wait for permission. On instinct now, I simply flee, racing across the great room and out the door, not stopping until I reach the base of the stairs. Leaning against the corner next to the portcullis, I press my forehead against the cool stone, trying to catch my breath.

Air.

Outside.

I can smell the ocean, albeit faint. The salt is in the air. I'm outside. It's okay.

"Trouble being indoors, hm?" Nathaniel's voice, mild and without reproach, sounds from near me, low enough not to startle.

I laugh under my breath, slightly bitter, more than a little embarrassed. "Yeah, it strikes me at the worst moments."

"Hmm. I think I can understand that." I glance at him, catch him eyeing me as I run my fingers through my unruly, nasty hair. "Will you walk with me? I promise I'll keep my wolf at bay," he adds, holding out his arm. After a moment's hesitation, I take it, feeling extremely strange about it and wondering just what the hell is going on. Too many things are happening at once, and I know it's all in my head, but for gods' sakes, I have got to get a grip.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," I venture, when he doesn't say anything for a long time.

He pauses, looking down at me, then shakes his head. "No, don't be. It was my own way of checking." I realise we're headed for the outer wall and smile, grateful for his arm as we make our way down the stairs to the outer courtyard. "An imposter would have embellished, would have unconsciously used phrases tainted with political beliefs or by listening to story-tellers, and may even have tried to play up to me somehow, believing there would be an advantage." I blink, staring up at him as we come to a halt at the base of the stairs, and this time it's he who smiles. "You seem surprised."

I stutter a bit, then shake my head, my tongue untying as he gets us moving again. "You seemed really upset. I can't know what the political climate looks like now, but I thought surely you would have heard what happened. Alistair seemed to think so."

He nods, looking around with a keen eye, and it's clear that he misses very little. I've seen him command three Wardens with his eyes and a head shake or a gesture, just since we began walking across the courtyard.

"Yes. I am well aware of the kind of man my father became; Alistair spoke to me about it when I first arrived here. He was the first, but I heard many other things after, as well; even my sister spoke against him. I made peace with the fact of my father's death long ago. What I thought I would have to simply be content to abide was that I had no account of his final moments. Alistair told me only you knew what he had whispered, or whether he suffered. I listened to Leliana tell the first versions of the Blight Tales, the ones that were truest, and imagined meeting you, just to ask that question."

Opening a door, he ushers me into a close and cramped little stairwell, but it leads out onto fresh air, and I dash up it, finding myself standing on a parapet, overlooking the slope and the road going down to the little patch of wood, a blurry green blot. The road is empty. Casually leaning against the stone, he pulls an apple out of the satchel at his hip, offering it to me. After a moment, I accept it.

"Thank you. Well... I hope I didn't disappoint." Somebody who wanted to meet me because of... I have a reputation. I'm not gonna be able to just hide. Ah, fuck. The apple is bitter, but the flavour settles my stomach.

He chuckles, pulling another apple out and rubbing it on his shirt before biting into it. "You're certainly a surprise," he says, and I laugh.

"And no-one more surprised than me, I promise you. It seems odd to me that people accept my presence so easily."

He gestures with a graceful hand as he speaks. "I think it may be the people you've been talking to, more than anything. You're fortunate enough to be keeping company with men and women who have seen first-hand what strange things can happen when magic and the Fade are involved. When a lot of magic concentrates in one place, it can rip holes in the Fade. I'd be surprised if the archdemon's death didn't do exactly that."

I nod, still watching. Still waiting. Nothing. Could he be right? How strong is the power of belief? Here, it's strong enough to change the world. That's a truly terrifying thought, one I've shied from since I first realised it on the ship, a year and more away, leagues of impassable time from here. What if belief held the same power on Earth, and we just didn't know it, didn't trust? That would explain a lot. _'I fell through a hole in the Fade,'_ I once said to Anders, flippantly, but how right was I?

"So tell me, what are you really doing here?" he asks, snapping me out of my reverie.

Alistair didn't tell him about Teagan, so I should probably keep my mouth shut, too. "We're going south. I... When I was here before, I couldn't actually... _touch_. I could see and hear, I could direct my actions and speak, but... I couldn't smell, taste, feel." I shrug. "It's completely different."

He regards me in silence for a while, then finally says, "That is impossibly sad."

I feel my brow furrow, not having expected quite this response. "What?"

"Not something I would expect to hear, considering the themes the story-tellers favour."

I take a deep breath, bowing my head.

After a moment, he says, "I'm sorry."

I shake my head. It's not his fault. "For what? Of course the Tales would be full of romance. I cannot describe to you what it is, to love someone through a pane of glass, but it is possible. It can be real and true and alive," I admit, and I can feel it, that distant, hollow ache, a thread stretching away across the sea to where a piece of me still lies.

_Don't think about it._

"Stories would have us believe a love like that can conquer all odds, overcome every adversity," he says, sympathy in his voice, but not pity.

I set my apple core aside on the wall and shake my head. "They're right. They're absolutely right: it can be all-conquering and all-overcoming, but a love like that is also all-consuming, and I was happily feeding myself to it, without regard, without care for consequence, which was neither sane nor healthy, and completely unrealistic. Life doesn't really work like that. It only works in stories because those people shone so brightly, they burnt out instantly. I did that. I don't want to repeat it, when I've got a second chance to do things a better way."

"With Alistair," he observes, and I nod, looking down the road again.

"Yes. He's steady as the tide, and I don't have to throw myself into danger, fear everything in my surroundings has been tainted with poison, watch for daggers in the dark and people whispering intrigue, just to be at his side." Still nothing.

"He's safe, you mean," he says dryly, in a tone that tells me he believes the 'safe' choice might be inferior by definition, and I glance over my shoulder at him.

"Yes, thank the gods." The road draws my eyes again, watching, aching for him, now that Nathaniel has got me talking about him. I'm trying not to worry, trying not to look at how terrified I am for him. There's not a blessed thing I could do if I were at his side, and I know it, but not being there is making me anxious. "I've never known a peace so complete as the year I have spent with him at the base in Antiva. It's never been safe for me to just... exist... before. Alistair has given me that, and a lot more besides. He's been good to me in ways I never knew were possible."

"You didn't exist before?" Nathaniel asks, and I glance back to see him toss the apple core into a bucket nearby.

The road is still empty.

Turning around, I put my back to the stone and cross my arms under my breasts. "When you were a child, did you ever dream of being a hero, going out to conquer terrible foes, coming back to the recognition and adoration of your people, maybe even making the world a better place?" At his nod, I continue.

"I'm a peasant and a simple carpenter, the daughter of a cart-driver and a musician. No-one of note. I dreamed I was a Dalish elf, fast and strong, brave and true, with clarity of purpose and a group of people around me who were capable of helping me see that vision through. I dreamed I had friends, that I was someone's lover, that I mattered... I fell in actual love with a figment, a man I nevertheless believed in, beyond reason, and when I died, I was so completely lost in that dream of love, I became entangled in it, and actually arrived.

"There is no Fade, no magic, not where I come from. According to the laws of reality from that world, it should not be possible for me to be standing here right now. I remember my dream very vividly, and in great detail. I _was here_, and I did all those things. But... I wasn't exactly myself at the time. I was a hero. Someone I could never truly be, no matter how hard I might try."

He is silent for a long time, looking at me, and I bow my head, not able to weather the piercing directness of his gaze. I glance over my shoulder again, but still nothing on the road. "Her personality had to come from somewhere," he says, eventually. "If you were the one riding around in her bones, I don't see how you're not really her."

I shake my head, turning away. "I couldn't step into her shoes, no way. I tried. I'm just not strong enough, physically or mentally, to take that on."

"You're still yourself, though, and that's who you were when you were here before, wasn't it?" he counters. "Maybe you shone so brightly because you were about to burn out, but you literally came back from the dead for love. Were I him, I would have spirited you away someplace secret and never come back to the world at all." He snorts, and I hear a tiny note of disdain in his voice. "You don't squander a second chance by following the same path that got you killed in the first place."

Taking a deep breath, I nod. "Exactly. So... to the hero, the assassin, and to the carpenter, the soldier. It's a trade I can live with. One that makes sense... even if it hurt to make it." This time, there's something moving near the blot that is the little copse of wood, and I turn more fully, squinting. Nathaniel sees the change in me, and comes to stand at my side.

"Ah, there they are," he says, and I look up at him in surprise. His eyes must be much better than mine. "One... two, three... four, five... six, seven, eight... nine... Someone's missing," he says, counting heads, and my heart clenches, fingernails scraping against the stone. Oh gods. Oh gods, no, please. Please, no, please not him... Nathaniel rests a comforting hand on my shoulder, mouth thinned to a hard line as he watches intently, waiting for the group to get close enough that he can identify the members.

I can see them now, a wavering grey blot steadily growing larger, resolving itself into figures. One, really short, must be Sigrun, and the slender blond one, Velanna. The rest of the soldiers all look so much the same, all wearing Warden armour. There's someone on a stretcher. I don't know I've whimpered until I hear Nathaniel's soothing murmur, squeezing my shoulder. "Whatever happens, Lily, you're safe here; I want you to know that. As far as I'm concerned, you're one of us."

"It's Alistair on the cot, isn't it," I whisper, frightened, and the look he turns on me then stops my heart.

It is.

He knows it is. It's why he said that.

"Oh gods," I whisper, agonised, terrified. He steps in front of me, getting between me and the door as I try to bolt, mindlessly, no plan, just wanting nothing more than to be at his side. He grabs me by the upper arms as I struggle for a few, futile moments, trying to push past him, while he just stands there, being decidedly wall-like.

"Shhh..." he whispers all the while, until I stop, sagging, and he lets go. "Running down there isn't going to change how fast they arrive, nor what state he's in. Are you a healer?"

This is a rhetorical question, but I shake my head anyway. His eyes are keen and frighteningly perceptive as he looks at me, pinning me to the spot.

"No. So just wait a minute. Think: they're not rushing, so either he's stable, or the worst has happened. Either way, we can't change anything. The best thing we can do for him is make sure he's got clean clothes and a bath. They all need that, regardless of their state. The rest of it will come soon enough, all right?" His voice is even and reasonable, pointing out everything I should have thought of, instead of instantly panicking.

I cover my face with my hands and nod. I can see why Alistair left him in charge, why there is trust here. Steady now.

I take a deep breath, letting my shoulders drop, and exhale slowly, looking back up at him. "Right. Sorry. Uh..." Okay brain, think. "I can fetch things from our room, but where do you want me to take them?"

"The infirmary, I think," he says, pointing to a building inside the inner wall.

I try to focus, keeping my mind fixed on the task at hand. I can hear my heartbeat, my breathing, everything loud in my ears as I dash up the stairs to the inner courtyard, no memory of descending from the wall, or what more I might have said to Nathaniel. My hands are shaking as I open the door to our room, making me fumble at the latch, and then again at his trunk. I open it, finding the smell of cedar and rain, of Alistair, inside, and tears burn the corners of my eyes.

_Don't think about it._

I dig through the clothes, pulling out socks and smalls, a soft tunic and a pair of loose pants.

Bowing my head, I whisper, "Athena preserve us," and rise. Clutching the clothing to my chest for a moment, I bury my face in the collar of his tunic, breathing deeply. Gods help me.

Now to the infirmary.

The healers are bustling, and they push me aside, into a chair where I can be out of the way. It's like being at the hospital. Within minutes, a couple of Wardens come in with Alistair, setting him on a bed. He's quickly stripped down to his smalls, the Wardens carrying out his armour for repair, and the healers closing in on him. All of them are talking, but I can't hear a word, just lost at the sight of his face, so pale, so still. How fragile our lives.

There is an ugly mass of gore on the side of his head... where he wasn't wearing a helmet...

His face turns away from me as the healers jostle him, and I find that my time is measured by the breath, eyes locked to his motionless chest.

The fabric of his tunic is soft between my fingers as I clench them tightly, crushing it.

Their motions are quick, efficient. I lose track of his face as the healers interpose, find myself staring at his hand. His shield hand. My shield.

_Oh gods, no..._

The healers begin chanting, hands held out over his body, glow slowly spreading out from under their fingers.

_And not three hours ago, I had the temerity to be complaining about the weather..._

My fingers flex again; the backs of my hands are wet.

_Alistair, I swear if you just wake up, I'll never take this for granted again, please, just please wake up._

It takes hours, it takes days, it takes years, all this chanting and flickering light, while I stare at his hand, curled by his hip.

There is a sudden, ringing silence, louder than the chanting had been, and I realise I am holding my breath.

As one of the healers steps away, I can see his face again, see the rise of his chest as he takes a breath. Quickly squeezing my eyes shut, I cover my sudden burst of relieved tears with his tunic. I bow my head and breathe deeply, crushing it down and mastering myself. He's alive, but that doesn't tell me everything.

But that's something. That's hope. That's so much.

As the other healers set about cleaning him up, the willowy blond woman comes over to me, and her ice blue eyes carry a weight of both calm and no-nonsense. "I understand you're the Commander's lady," she says, seeking confirmation, and I nod. "He was badly injured. He lost a lot of blood, and his head..." She shakes her head, looking down, and my heart freezes in my chest. "If he wakes, he'll be absolutely fine."

"If-" I choke on the word, and she looks professionally sympathetic, taking the clothing gently from my hands.

"Perhaps it will comfort you to know that he cleared an entire swarm," she says, watching me for a moment with a very piercing gaze. I have no idea what to say, and into the momentary pause, she continues. "If you are near him, talking to him, maybe he will come around more quickly," she offers. The other healers have moved him to a different bed, off at the other end of the room. One of them still stands at his side, spreading blankets over him.

"Thank you," I murmur to the blond... Levanna? Something. I don't even know. She follows me to his side, glow igniting under her hand as she looks over him again with her healer's sight, nodding to herself absently.

The glow fades as her eyes focus on me again. It seems like she might say something, but then just shakes her head and walks away, leaving me to sit nervously at Alistair's side and wait.

The alcove where this bed sits is fairly off the main area, and there is a rack with bottles on it between us and the outside. Gingerly, carefully, I crawl into the bed with him, laying down next to him. Wrapping my arm over his waist, I twine my fingers through his. I curl around him and tuck my head into the space above his shoulder, so I can whisper to him without anyone else hearing me.

And I pause there, frozen. What do I say? What's true? How do I call him back, the way I've been called?

"Come back to me, Alistair," I whisper, my free hand trailing through his hair, up the sweep of his jaw, down his neck. "We can't come all this way just to end before we've even begun. This can't be how it goes. We have a second chance. Please, Alistair... come back to me. Don't leave me here alone. Wake up. Please wake up."

As the time wears on, I fade from begging to dreaming, talking about all the things we said on the long boat ride over here, all the plans we made for the future, all the hopes we had. I tell him stories, about him, about us, both before and after I actually arrived here. The shift changes, the sun goes down, the shift changes again. I talk so long I run out of things to say, at last bursting into exhausted tears and weeping quietly on his shoulder.

"Please don't leave me, Alistair... I love you," I choke out, and it has got to be that one sentence that does it because he stirs then, fingers curling around mine, and I gasp. "I love you," I repeat, "I love you, Alistair, please come back to me. I love you, I love you, please, please, my love, my shield, don't take the light from my life, not again, please... I love you..." I whisper desperately, back to begging again.

He suddenly moves, letting go of my hand, his own sliding up my arm as he turns his head. "Lily," he breathes.

"Alistair," I sob, and kiss him ardently, relieved beyond measure, beyond words. He responds passionately, wrapping an arm around my hips, his other hand sliding into my hair to hold me to him, and I sag, all the terrified tension leaving me in an instant. At last, he pulls back, looking up at me, and I can't help but reach up, my fingertip tracing the arch of his eyebrow. "I thought I'd lost you," I confess, mouth twisting, and something in his face softens with wonder as his hand slips forward, cupping my cheek, thumb stroking over my cheekbone. I close my eyes, nuzzling into his hand.

His shield hand.

He pulls me down against his chest, and I cling tightly to him. "I heard you," he murmurs. I burrow my face into the hollow of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent, comforted by the heat and strength of him wrapped around me once more. "I heard your voice. I heard you whispering to me, and it was like a small flame in the darkness. Candlelight that led me back."

My fingers curl, skimming across his collar bone as I sob again, clutching at him. "I was so scared," I confess, "I love you so much." It's true. Oh gods, it is so true.

I can feel his throat working as he swallows hard, and press a kiss to the corner of his jaw. His arm tightens around me, and his lips are soft as he kisses the centre of my forehead. "Don't let go," he whispers, and I squeeze my eyes shut tightly.

He needs to hear it, too.

"Never," I swear.

I swear.

Gods help me.


	35. Endless Walking

Alistair is on his feet the next day, insisting that he feels fine, only wobbling a little bit when he says it.

"I've had worse, honestly, Velanna," he complains, unwittingly adding to the hard knot of shame I carry over the way Mahariel treated him.

All her advice on magic boiled down to two things: meditation and inner calm. I can do one, but the other's not going to be easy. The rest is willpower, knowing what the energy feels like, and having enough capacity to draw mana that I can feed the spell to completion. All of that just comes with time and use. She says one thing that gets apostates caught is that they are afraid to use their magic, so they don't get powerful enough to escape when the Templars come knocking.

In any case, we're allowed to leave the following day, despite Velanna's clucking to the contrary.

Nathaniel was kind enough to locate us a group of people headed south, so we're able to put our trunks on a cart, which is very helpful. Alistair laughs when I tell him I'm not riding in another cart as long as I live, but I mean it. The ox doesn't plod along fast enough for me not to keep up with it, so instead of riding, I hike along beside or behind it. I'm not above accepting a lift to the top of a hill, but I'm much more content to walk, despite how footsore it makes me.

The people of the caravan are nice enough, and when it stops, it tends to break into a string of separate camps, so Alistair and I mostly have the evenings to ourselves.

Alistair is setting up the tent and I'm dicing potatoes into the stewpot when I see him stop to rub at his head.

"You okay?" I ask softly, and he shakes himself, nodding and giving me a smile.

"Yep! Should have this thing set up in no time," he replies cheerfully, and I sigh inwardly. Oh no, mustn't admit pain in front of the girlfriend.

"Sorry about your head," I say, looking down at my work.

"What? Nah, it's just a headache. I get them all the time," he says, waving it off, and I realise he's right, I just never noticed their frequency.

"Have you always had headaches?" I ask, curious and worried about him.

"No, they started... Oh... Hmm..." he mutters, fiddling with a string that's come undone and chewing at his lip as he thinks. "Sometime after we went through the ruins in the Brecilian, I think."

My stomach is a cold, hard stone as I stare at him in stultified silence.

I went to the Brecilian after dealing with the Tower. From the top of the ruins to the bottom, I never went back to camp, and when we left there, Alistair had three red icons. One of them was 'head trauma', and I didn't even care, because I knew we'd be back to camp soon. I didn't want to 'waste' an injury kit. I knew there wouldn't be another battle, so I took my sweet, bloody time, dropping off loot at the Dalish camp and tying up a few side-missions before I finally went back.

And now this living, breathing man has headaches.

"What?" he says, blinking, brow furrowing. "What is it? It's not that bad, honestly, Lily; don't look so horrified. Considering how many times I've been concussed, it should come as a surprise that I'm not a half-wit. I'll trade that for headaches any day," he says, off-handed again, as though he doesn't matter. "Though it could be argued that wittiness is not my strong suit," he muses, pretending to give it serious thought and stroking his chin sagely.

I laugh, in spite of myself, trying to focus on the vegetables. The pot filled, I put it in the flames at the edge of the fire to heat up. Eventually, the tent is finished, and he comes over to the fire to sit next to me. "I'm sorry," I murmur, glancing over at him as he rubs his forehead again.

"For what?"

"Your head. I remember that..." Glancing away, I wrap my arms around my waist. I need to admit to my mistakes. "It's my fault. I didn't give you an injury kit, let you wander around with all those wounds, all the way through to the camp."

He pauses, looking at me for a long moment before speaking. "What?"

I shake my head, looking down at my useless hands. "I could see here, but... it was like a moving painting, sometimes. Not tangible. Things could get slightly distorted. I couldn't tell that you were hurt just by looking at you; I always saw you whole, even when you weren't. I wasn't able to see if you limped or had to hold your head to keep it from falling apart. But... I knew. I'm so sorry, Alistair, I'm so sorry. I was selfish and cruel, and now you've got all these scars, and-"

His hands cup my cheeks, making me look up at him just a moment before his lips press softly to mine, silencing me. His thumb strokes over my cheekbone as he pulls back, resting his forehead against mine.

"No. Don't take that on, Lily; that wasn't you, it was me. Even if you somehow knew what was happening with me, it wasn't you who was too proud to ask for help, who staggered onward without a word because the alternative was showing weakness in front of a Crow and a woman who continuously dragged herself through every misery and never complained, never hesitated." He kisses my forehead as my eyes begin leaking. "You can't blame yourself for everything, love. Other people were making decisions, too."

"I know, I know," I whisper, leaning into him, grateful for his strength yet again. "I just hate that bad things happened to you because of me."

He shakes his head, wrapping his arms around me, and I lay my cheek in the hollow of his shoulder. "Bad things happened to me because of the _Blight_. Even if someone else had been standing in your place, I can guarantee that I'd still have been knocked unconscious more than once. It's just the life of a Warden, love, and a lot I accepted a long time ago. Don't cry for me for what happened before you came here. Not only can it not be changed, but it wasn't you. You said it yourself: Mahariel was the one calling the shots, and all you could do was make the best of the options she offered. I don't hold you to blame for anything, Lily, so stop doing it to yourself on my behalf. It's not worth it. It's not worth this," he says, lifting my face and kissing my eyelids.

His lips are salty and bitter-sweet with my sorrow for him as he claims my mouth again, pulling me closer, and I sag against him, winding my arms around his neck. I am fully in his lap, straddling his hips, as we kiss with ardent abandon, when the scent of our nearly-done stew wafts toward us and his stomach growls very loudly, breaking the kiss and making both of us laugh.

"That sounds like a vote for 'food first'," he says as I rise, and gives my hips a squeeze before letting go of me completely, making me blush.

As Alistair sits back, rubbing his belly after demolishing over half the contents of the pot, Ponka trots out of the underbrush and proudly lays two dead rabbits at my feet. I blink, startled, then realise I'd better say something. I smile brightly and ruffle his ears. "You're such a good dog! What a wonderful present! Thank you so much!" I tell him, and he sits up straighter, chest puffing out with pride.

Alistair laughs, gathering up our bowls. "I'll take these over to the creek and get them stripped," he says, picking up the rabbits by the ears. "The furs will fetch us a couple of silvers each."

I nod. "And if we roast them tonight, I can use the meat in tomorrow's dinner," I add. I busy myself about the camp, putting our bedrolls down and arranging things in the tent while he's away, trusting in Ponka to guard my back, then resume my place by the fire.

"You know, I've just remembered," Alistair says, crouching down next to me to spit the cleaned rabbits and set them over the waning fire. "Where was Ponka while we were at the Vigil? I didn't see him after that first night."

Ponka looks up, grinning widely, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, and I laugh. "He was in the kennels."

Alistair's brow furrows. "But he didn't have to be, did he? Surely no-one would have told him he couldn't be with us."

I giggle and Ponka makes a strange little howling sound that might be doggy laughter. "No, no-one said he had to go. He went there on purpose. For the ladies."

Alistair blinks, then grins, looking over at Ponka. "Atta boy. Thought you were feeling a little pent-up, in Denerim. Good to be back among your own, eh?"

Ponka barks in happy agreement, and I think maybe Alistair knows because he's feeling the same way, despite our difficulties.

After some coaxing, and a lot of blushing on my part, Alistair convinces me to sing for him, to while away the time the rabbits need to cook. "Something I haven't heard before," he implores, and so I rack my brain, and finally come up with some Heart, singing some stuff off the _Little Queen_ album, and a little bit of Fleetwood Mac's _Rumours_. But not "The Chain". That song will never mean the same thing to me again. "Rhiannon" is a good one. Only that's not _Rumours_, I don't think. It bothers me that I can't remember anymore. When I open my eyes and look up after finishing with another song by Heart, I realise we've gathered an audience. I blush hotly, ducking my head again and clapping my hands over my face, giggling as everyone applauds.

"Oh my gods, Alistair, why didn't you tell me there were other people listening?" I ask in a furious whisper, burning with embarrassment, and he wraps an arm around my hips, pulling me closer, laughing.

"Because everyone was enjoying it? Because you have a beautiful voice and I didn't want you to stop?" he murmurs, and I hear the other people of the caravan slowly filtering away, chattering animatedly about my singing. I cuddle up against him, still laughing, feeling just a little more free, now that so many have heard me and responded so positively.

Not long after, Alistair declares the rabbits done, and pulls them off the fire; we strip the meat from the bones as soon as they're cool enough to do so, and wrap everything up in a scrap of leather. Alistair takes the bones down to the creek while I'm packing up all our gear so the only thing we'll have to do in the morning is take down the tent.

I help him out of his armour before I crawl inside the tent, and he's on me before I've finished taking off my breeches, making me squeal with surprise as he bowls me over, and I fall to the floor laughing. He soon has me too breathless for anything else, testing my ability to be silent to the absolute limit, before we fall asleep in each other's arms, completely exhausted.

When I next open my eyes, it's broad daylight, and the sunlight filtering through the trees dapples the world in shifting glints of gold. I sit up abruptly, realising I'm just laying on the bare ground, and look around. There is absolutely no one with me. Birch, alder, elm and ash, these trees, this ground, this is the Brecilian. I'm dreaming again.

Gods damn it. I hate the Fade.

Standing up, I automatically brush off my pants, then shake my head at the futility of the gesture. Who cares? This isn't really real. Well. Sort of.

"Lily?"

I turn around to find the source of the voice standing right behind me, making me jump. "Tamlen!" Of all people-

I don't even get to finish the _thought_ before he wraps his arms around me and kisses me soundly, ardently, like he's always known me, fitting his body against mine perfectly and making me swoon. I can't help but respond for a timeless eternity of a moment, swaying against him and humming softly.

At last he pulls back, but only far enough to rub his nose along the side of mine, his fingers rising to brush my hair off my forehead gently. "Do you know how incredibly hard you are to find?" he asks, humour in his voice, his eyes.

I can't help but smile. "No? Besides, I think you're looking for _her_," I add, pulling back just a little more, but he is reluctant to let me go, arms still around my waist, and he steps with me.

_ "Nae... dar emm'asha,_ Lily. _Emma sa'asha._ No other," he says, completely confident. "Why don't you believe me? You think I wouldn't recognise my own wife?" he asks, but this is rhetorical, with laughter behind it. "We've had this conversation before," he adds, and I nod reluctantly. "I would know you in a sea of a thousand faces, even if I were blinded, just from the smell of your hair alone. You are my Bonded; I can never forget you." I can feel myself blushing, and his smile turns a little darker with desire.

"There's just one problem with that," another voice says, interrupting us, and I look to the side to find Nolan standing there, nonchalantly leaning against a tree and watching us. "It's not really her. I mean, well, technically she sort of is, but not really. You can see that, right? I mean, she's not even an elf."

Tamlen's brow furrows and he looks at me again, then shakes his head. "I can feel it, though," he protests. "She may not be... quite the same, but... I can feel her. This is right." His grip on me tightens protectively and he turns just ever so slightly, as though he would protect me from Nolan, somehow.

Nolan shakes his head, looking down at his feet, and pushes off the tree. "Lily, blank your mind. Do a mantra, sing a song, something. Don't ask any questions, not even in your head. Got it?"

I nod, feeling my eyes widen, and a deep well of fear opens in my stomach. Okay. Okay, think. Brick by brick, I start imagining I'm building a wall in my mind, focusing all my willpower on it as the men talk to each other.

"So- Tamlen, right?" Nolan asks, coming closer, and Tamlen nods warily. "I'm Nolan. Pleased to meet you," he says, holding out his hand. Tamlen hesitates for a long moment, then lets go of me just long enough to shake it. "I've been with her all her life, just as you had been. But, uh... Things are a little odd with the way things work around here, and the worlds you've come from. She's not whole. I mean, look at her. Really look. You can see there's a piece missing, right?" Tamlen frowns, stepping back from me a little bit, looking at me with a critical eye.

I wonder-

Bricks are red. There is mortar in between them, half an inch thick. White. Another brick.

"Hmm... I see your point, but I don't understand," he says, and Nolan shrugs.

"Ever since she was a little girl, there was a piece missing. She's always been a dreamer," Nolan says, and somehow the way he says that makes it seem like it should be with a capital 'D'. "And a traveller of worlds. I think it's because of that missing piece."

I'm a-

Another brick. This one can be slightly yellower, with a chip in the corner. More mortar.

"Oh shit," Nolan says, and I open my eyes.

All at once, I realise I'm looking at the bricks that make up the fireplace in my grandmother's living room. I haven't been actually _inside_ the house during my dreaming state for a very, very long time. I've been too afraid since the Incident to think of it as my safe place, especially after the last time I saw Nolan.

"Oh shit," I echo. Since I left, neither Nolan nor I have been in here, and of course, Tamlen's never been here at all. This place is full of things that will be completely alien to him, and sure enough, he's starting to wig out, staring around the room with wide eyes, looking like all his small hairs are standing on end.

"Lily?" another voice says, a female voice, one that has haunted me since the day it ceased, more than half my lifetime ago. I can't look. I can't.

No questions.

"What are you doing here, darlin'?" she asks, and I close my eyes tightly, tears squeezing out of them. Her voice. Her voice, it hurts so much. Oh gods. "You're not ready to come home yet," she says, and I shake my head.

"I know, Gramma... I didn't mean to come. I was just trying to be safe, and so of course, I found myself here," I tell her. I can't look. What- Bricks. The bricks in the back of the fireplace are blackened with soot.

"Who are these men with you?" she asks suspiciously, and I choke on a laugh. "You'd better not be a danger to my Lily," she warns, and I can hear the steel in her voice. "I see you, you know. I see you for what you are."

"Oh?" Nolan asks, and I silently pray that he's kind to her, because I love her, and I love him, and I want them to like each other. "Well, I would never lie to you, my lady - Lily loves you far too dearly for that. It is my sworn duty to protect her, and so I have, for all of her life."

"Hmph. Not very well," she snorts. "Where were you after I died, and she was going mad with grief, I wonder?"

Bricks. One of them was in a mould that had corrugated sides. I remember stroking my fingers over it as a child, trying to figure out why this one brick had ripples when none of the others did, making up stories about the lives of bricks.

"I was with her, I swear to you, my lady," Nolan replies, being courtly in an entirely unfamiliar and jarring way. "You might notice she is still alive, after all."

Grandma hums under her breath, that familiar, irritated little sound she'd make when she hardly believed me, but was willing to operate under the assumption that I wasn't lying. "And who are you, then?" she asks, and I feel Tamlen stiffen slightly at the tone of disapproval.

"Her husband," he says, clearly, succinctly, and I groan inwardly.

There is nothing but silence for a long while.

"Lily, you can open your eyes now," Nolan says, "She's become very confused and couldn't hold her form. I think Tamlen's being an elf threw her." I look up, and the three of us are alone.

"She's still here, though," I say, and Nolan nods. "So... she can hear us," I add, and he nods again.

"Statements. You're learning," he says. "Let's go outside, leave her in peace." I lead the men out through the nearest door, the one to the back patio that faces the water.

"I love you, Gramma," I whisper, before closing the door, "One day, I'll come to stay, but not yet. Not yet."

When I turn around, Tamlen is standing by the raspberry canes, pulling down berries and eating them, and Nolan is looking at the water. "You're dead," I say to him without preamble, and he looks over at me, highly amused.

"Nope. Very much alive, thank you, but I can see why you'd think it. Let's just say... I live here."

"At- What-" Bricks. Bricks build a sturdy wall, piece by piece, surrounding me. I put my fingers to my temples and rub.

"You're doing well," he murmurs. "Just relax."

"You can ask questions," I observe, and he nods. "But I can't. Because I'm still alive," I venture, putting it as a statement of fact.

"Among other things, yes," he says, then shrugs awkwardly.

"Because I don't live here," I amend, and he nods.

"That's got a great deal to do with it, yes. The dead, demons, spirits, people like me: denizens attract no attention. It's desires, questions, needs, that's what attracts the others, like sharks to blood."

"You can fly," I say, eyeing him, and he colours, looking at his feet and scuffing the ground with his toe.

"Uh... sometimes. Under the right circumstances, yeah. Mostly no."

I take a deep breath. No questions. No needs. Just be. Brick by brick.

"A piece of me is missing," I say. It's not a question. Statement. Only statements.

"Yes. Your soul was fragmented a long time ago, before you were born. You were a twin, did you know that?"

I blink. "What- I mean, I don't understand how that would be a factor."

"It was, though. Haven't you always felt like there was something missing? Why do you suppose you sought refuge in fantasy so often? You have always been escapist, for a reason. When you lost your twin, part of you was lost, as well. You've been searching for it ever since. The problem is, it never had form or substance, just floated around lost, for a very, very long time. But then... Things changed, didn't they."

I frown, my brow furrowing, and shake my head. "I don't see how."

"Oh, you don't? I think you already suspect, and you're just too afraid to face it." He glances at Tamlen, then gives me a significant look, and my heart stops.

Mahariel.

"I created myself... here..." I say slowly, trying not to ask any questions. It's the opposite of that game from _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead_. No questions, only statements. "I mean, on Thedas... and... I wrote. A lot."

"And you believed, which was the key component."

"Belief by itself isn't enough to make something real," I protest, but he shakes his head.

"It is in a world where magic is controlled by force of will."

"But that doesn't happen on Earth."

"It doesn't? Are you sure about that? The force of belief is a powerful thing. Who's to say that the world wasn't different when everyone believed differently? And even if it wasn't," he says, holding up a forestalling hand as I gather breath to protest again, "It's certainly true on Thedas. The wandering piece of your soul rested in her breast, and you both resonated with the same will, the same powerful desires. Through her, you created the circumstances that allowed you to cross realities."

"But... but why-" I snap my mouth shut, but it's too late. The yard darkens as though a cloud has passed over the sun, and Nolan sighs.

"And we were doing so well, too," he mutters, shaking his head, making me feel stupid and small, though I can tell he doesn't mean to make me feel that way, and would probably be upset if I told him.

Grabbing my hand, he calls over his shoulder, "If you're coming with us, Tamlen, you'd better hold on tight. I don't think we're done with this conversation, personally." Distracted from the raspberries, Tamlen dashes over to us, taking my other hand. "Now run," Nolan says, taking off across the yard and down the steps, and I bow my head, watching his feet instead of what's ahead of us, letting him lead, Tamlen just a step behind me.

When we stop, we're in a dark room, the walls looking like an old, burnt out hobo, grey boards nailed up over the windows long ago, dark and grimy like some kind of noir film set.

"I'm running out of places to hide you," Nolan says, turning around and looking at me intently, searching for something in my eyes. "It's getting harder and harder to throw them off, now that one of them's got your scent."

"One of them," I say flatly, not asking, just observing, trying not to think at all. "I have a scent."

Nolan nods, apparently satisfied with whatever he sees, and turns me loose; immediately, Tamlen wraps his arms around me protectively, and I lean against him, because I am well and truly frightened right now. "'Demons', Thedasians call them. And also 'sins', to the Earth-bound, some of them, or 'fairies', 'ghosts', 'angels'... 'gods'. Denizens of the Outside. Place goes by many, many names. 'Heaven', 'Hell', 'Valhalla', 'Fade', 'Purgatory', 'Bardo', 'Astral Plane', 'Faerie'. It's all the same: a five-dimensional shadow cast by the combined consciousness of the inhabited three-dimensional worlds.

"They can't figure out how to cram themselves into three dimensions. They desperately want to because mortal concepts like love and compassion are forever beyond their reach, but they hunger for it, born out of the base desires of the sentient races, so they prey upon any three-dimensional being that happens to stumble in here. Most people show up ghostly, randomly, have their threads leading back to their bodies, and are never touched. But have you ever heard of someone who just... changed, one day? No explanation, just... suddenly they're different. People talk about their 'guardian angels', the 'demons' that haunt them, taunt them. Voices in their heads. Three-dimensional beings still live in five-dimensional space. You can't see everything that's happening around you.

"It gets worse, though. I've likened them to sharks before, and they are very much that. Your fragment... it's like you're constantly bleeding into the water, a thin trail that can't help but lead straight back to you. And now they've got your scent, so they're looking for you."

"Tell me how to fix this," I plead, proud of myself that it's accidentally a statement, and he smiles, but it's a brittle thing, and Tamlen's arms tighten around me.

Instead of answering, though, he addresses Tamlen. "What's the significance of apples, lavender, and rosemary?"

"_Emm'asha_," he answers immediately. "She loved apples most of all, but they were so hard to come by. And the herbs, her soap, her cooking. She always smells of herbs." He buries his face in my hair, clinging tightly. I think maybe I'm beginning to have a glimmer of understanding, now that roles are reversed, how it made Alistair feel when I told him that he smelled of home.

Nolan hangs his head. "I was afraid you'd say that." He pushes a hand through his hair, an exasperated hiss between his teeth as he begins pacing. I've never seen him so agitated, and it scares me even more. "Lily, the last time I saw you- You remember, right? The traps?" I nod, too frightened to say anything at this point. "Something _knows_ that you're fragmented."

My stomach flips. Only one other-worldly creature has been close enough to me to know what my soul looks like out here besides these two.

"The Tommy demon," I breathe, and Tamlen's arms tighten around me again.

Stopping abruptly, Nolan strikes his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Of course! It was both powerful and incredibly intelligent."

My hands are shaking. Oh gods. "And the Crows handed me over to it on a silver platter."

"So now it's hunting her," Tamlen says, and Nolan nods.

"They don't like to be foiled. That kind of demon can't allow her to escape. It's about pride, after all," Nolan says grimly.

"We need to figure out what to do," I say, proud that I've made it a statement, despite my terror.

"You can't stay fragmented," Nolan says. "It wasn't a danger when you lived on Earth, because I was here to guard you, but now that you've gone to Thedas, you're subject to the laws of magic, and that's a whole new game. You're here solidly, not just ghostly, and I can't protect you against that."

"I've become a mage," I tell him, the bottom dropping out of my stomach, and his brow furrows.

"No, no that doesn't happen. You can't be. You weren't born there," he protests, but I just shrug.

"The Templar in Amaranthine sensed me. Alistair drained my mana. I felt it. I think I might've accidentally forged the chain that binds me to Zevran. Anders said there's a hole in the Fade next to me." Only statements. Okay, good.

Nolan chews at his lip. "It might have something to do with the missing piece..." He sighs, frustrated, running his hand through his hair again, and resumes pacing. "You have to find it. The trail between you and it will lead the pride demon back to you. It's already one step ahead, because it knows Mahariel is your other half. It's been setting traps for you, waiting for you to realise it and say something about it while you're here. That's why we had to run when you talked about apples and the herbal scents. It's got your measure. _Shit_."

"Well... we need to locate my other half, then," I say slowly, having trouble framing the statement. "I don't know how to do that." Okay, good. No questions. Right. This is getting more and more difficult.

Nolan shakes his head. "Neither do I."

"What about the trail?" Tamlen asks. "If the demon can use it, why can't we?"

Nolan shakes his head. "It's no good. She leaves wake, like a boat, you know? But the wake disappears after a certain distance, and doesn't resurface until you're closer to her or the missing piece. So far, no one has found that missing piece. If they had, this would be so much more dangerous. Listen, Tamlen, if you see her, the elven half of Lily, do not approach. Just keep track of her. We won't know whether she's safe until we can find out what's going on with that other piece. And it's not safe for her to be near it, here. We have to get her back to it in three dimensions, first."

"But... but she's dead," I say, and Nolan growls, frustrated.

"I know. I know! How to unite a living soul with the other piece of it that has already been considered dead, without being _here_ to do it? Without ripping a hole in reality? Augh! It's never been done before, to my knowledge. Never been necessary. People missing a piece usually find it somehow. Some find God, some create, some self-destruct, but not you. Your faith and your art and your near-death experiences didn't bring it back, because no matter where you went or what you did, you always had a powerful wish to be in another world entirely, anyone but you, so that piece never found a home, until now. And now that piece is 'dead', so I have _no_ idea what to do. You," he says, pointing at me, "are an incredibly difficult person to protect."

"Lily," Tamlen murmurs, and I look at him. "We were meant to be reunited in the _Setheneran_. What will happen to us now? That missing piece is the woman I love. And yet, so are you."

"I don't know," I whisper, reaching up to trace the tattooed curl at the corner of his mouth. "But I swear to you, _emma uth na'sha._-" The world vibrates like a gong, and Nolan curses, dashing forward to grab me, but it's too late. Something is pounding on the wall.

"Lily! Dammit! You were speaking Elvish! Wake up now. Wake up!" he shouts, shaking me, but I don't. I don't wake up.

"I'm trying!" I cry, but something is holding me here. I can't wake. I know I'm dreaming, so why can't I wake? I've asked that question before, and I don't like the answer.

The wall cracks, plaster dust raining down, and there is a roar outside, full of fury and hunger. Tamlen lets go of me in favour of drawing his bow, nocking an arrow and pacing to the side, waiting for whatever it is to break in, so he can shoot it.

"Wake up, Lily!" Nolan yells at me, and I close my eyes, but the sound of whatever is trying to break in scares me so badly that I can't let go of this place. I can't focus on where I'm supposed to be. I hear the wall crack ominously, and then there is a low thud followed by a horrendous crash, the wall splintering and shattering inward. One more blow like that, and it'll be in.

"I'm so sorry about this, Lily," Nolan says. I look to him, about to tell him that it's no good, just in time to see him haul back his hand to slap me full force across the face, shocking the life out of me.

There is darkness, something shackling me, my back aching sharply as a heavy weight on my torso collapses me to the ground. My throat is raw, people are shouting, sounding angry. Alistair's face swims into view above me, frightened. Oh gods, frightened. And above that, determined. Very, very determined.

_Oh gods._

"Alistair?" My voice is tiny and hoarse and he closes his eyes for a moment, but it's not relief - he's steeling himself, and my stomach turns to jelly. "Why are you looking at me like that?" I ask, hating the quaver in my voice, and swallow. "What happened? What was I doing?"

"You'll answer for that woman's screaming, ser," a stern voice demands from the other side of the tent wall, and I recognise the merchant whose caravan this is. "Produce her immediately, or we must assume the worst."

Slowly, Alistair leans back, letting go of me, but the look hasn't left him, and I pull my arms in, curling them against my chest. He's scaring me, and that's new. I don't like it. At all. I crawl forward, just as the merchant is saying, "Ser-" again, pulling the flap of the tent aside and standing up, looking around at all the assembled people, holding implements or weapons of some sort. All of them staring at me. Ponka stands up from his position next to the tent, keeping himself between me and those assembled, though he doesn't threaten anyone.

I shift awkwardly, wrapping my arms around my waist in the evening chill, gaze careening over the faces in front of me.

_Don't just stand there... say something, stupid! These people think Alistair was beating the hell out of you or something!_

"Uh... I'm sorry I pulled you all from your beds," I say, my voice still shaking. Truth. "Sometimes I have horrible, terrifying nightmares." Alistair rises behind me, setting a hand on my shoulder, and I cover it with my own. The heat of him behind me and the weight of his hand make me feel steadier and I take a deep breath. "Alistair would never hurt me; in fact, he's the only one who can call me out of them. I swear to you, all's well, despite how it might've sounded a moment ago. Please... Let's all try to go back to sleep."

Most of them have lowered their weapons by now. The others wander away, muttering and yawning, back to their own beds, but the merchant hesitates, looking between us, finally settling on me again. "You sure you're okay?" he asks, and I nod firmly, leaning against Alistair.

"Yes, sir. The first thing I heard upon waking was you demanding that he produce me. My throat is raw, and by the fact that everyone was here, I can only have been having a nightmare. I-" I laugh softly and bitterly at myself. "I gather I'm loud enough to carry through three oak doors," I say wryly, looking up at Alistair. Something softens around his eyes as he looks at me, the familiarity returning, and the knot in my throat eases somewhat.

The merchant nods, reassured, then looks at Alistair, holding out his hand. "My apologies, ser. I hope you understand, with the way she sounded-"

Alistair shakes his head, easily reaching out and clasping hands with the man. "I completely understand, and it's good to know I'm travelling with decent folk. May sleep find you."

The merchant smiles, glad that there are no hard feelings, and turns away, trudging back to his own little encampment. I turn, wrapping my arm around Alistair's waist, but there's a tension in him that refuses me solace, and I look up. The grimness is back, making me pull away, and I bow my head, ducking back inside the tent. I sit on my side of the bed cross-legged, the coming conversation a heavy weight of stones on my back.

I look at my lap, pulling the hem of my tunic through my fingers restlessly as he crawls in and sits across from me. I hear Ponka flop down outside with a grunt and a grumble, and my heart goes out to him. He's a strong boy, but he still takes four steps to our every two.

"We need to talk," I say, into the uncomfortable silence.

"We really do," he replies evenly, and my heart stops.

He might be as understanding as the day is long, but he's still a Templar-trained warrior, and if something gets me, he'll do what needs doing.

_That determination in his eyes._

The night Anders rescued me, Alistair said if it had to be anyone, it'd be him. He wouldn't let anyone else touch me.

There's no other mage around now to pull me out if something gets its hands on me.

_He swore, before we left, that he wouldn't let anyone touch me._

And I was the only one who was simply carrying on, believing the magic wouldn't touch me if I just ignored it, if I just pretended that my life was normal and that these things were just odd coincidences. Even though Anders said flat out I was a mage, but weak as a kitten.

I missed the part where it was important that he said I _am_ a mage, somehow, even if only enough to hurt me in the long run. I forgot the part where Alistair, this man, _my_ sweet and gentle lover, is capable of wholesale slaughter. And none the worse for wear afterward, when he has backup.

_Oh gods._

My sudden terror of _Alistair_ chokes me, and I don't want to say anything anymore. I have a terrible urge to flee, and there's nowhere to run. No-one to run to.

His eyes widen at whatever he sees in my face, and he reaches out to me even as I jerk back. He catches my hands between his and bows his head over them, presses his lips to my palms like a supplicant, as though he'd drink from them if they held water. "Please stop looking at me like that," he whispers hoarsely. "Anything but that... _please_."

My eyes burn with tears of shame and fear. "I don't mean to be like this," I implore in a terrified whisper, forcing the words out past the terrible constriction in my throat. "I didn't ask for this. I don't want it. I don't want it! Nobody in their right mind would choose it!" I realise abruptly that it's been awhile since I hated myself, and I do not relish the return of that familiar emotion, worn and battered like an old overcoat.

"Shhh... I know. I know," he says, shaking his head, urging me closer by drawing my hands forward. Slowly, I creep toward him, and he gently enfolds me in his arms, tentative for the first time since that first night, as though I might bolt or shatter at any moment, and he isn't sure which. Still, the heat and strength of his embrace give me that precious illusion of safety to cling to, the way he clings to me. "You don't face it alone," he whispers, pressing a trembling kiss to my crown, and I shudder. My shield, yes, but now I cannot forget that he also carries a sword. "Tell me what happened, and we'll find a way. I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe. Maker, Lily, don't lose faith in me now."

His voice trembles at the last, and I realise he may have said just exactly that to Mahariel at some point before the breaking, because I glossed it over and never really wrote the entire scene. Oh gods. Somehow, I'm putting myself in these situations, and yet it always seems like I have no choice. I have to tell him everything now, don't I? How else could he help me? I have to trust him.

_Hera preserve me_.

"Okay... Listen... Uhm..." I lick my lips to mask their quivering. "I'm not sure where to start, but... Okay, uh- For as long as I can remember, ever since I was a little girl, I've had these dreams of a boy named Nolan. He's always been just a little bit older than me, so we kind of... grew up together."

His brow furrows, and I realise that there's a parallel here between me and Mahariel that I didn't expect. "Uhm, well, anyway, when we were little, we would do things like play hide and seek in the woods or build sand castles at the beach, innocent things. When I was a teenager, that turned to wild midnight rides and intrigue. As I became an adult, we sought out peaceful places instead. Through it all, he's always been my friend, and a guide of sorts, especially as we got older. He took me places, taught me how to fly. There was always a moment when we'd have to run from 'Them'. Never a defined anyone in particular, just 'Them', whomever it was that mustn't find us, mustn't notice us."

Alistair is beginning to look alarmed, and I grip his hands tightly. "Listen... Where I come from, the Fade doesn't exist, not like it does here. Here, it's so close you can taste it; there's no denying its reality. Every ruin is haunted, and the ghosts are visible for anyone to see. Mages can create fire out of thin air, willpower, and a few choice words. None of that is possible there. Those who reach it or see into it do so by accident, and are considered mad, or frauds. Totally dismissed."

He's not looking confused, which is a good sign, and I take a deep breath. "Okay. So the fact that I had serial dreams about the same person was incredibly odd, but not outside the realm of human experience, and so it was chalked up to a quirk of the creative and intelligent mind, and left at that. All right. So. Uhm. Once I got here, he became... tangible. More real. Uh... I think because the Fade is so much closer, here. He... Okay, I'm getting a little ahead of myself."

I clear my throat, feeling suddenly raw from having had a screaming fit in my sleep and now doing a lot of talking. Alistair reaches behind him, pulls his pack closer, and produces a flask of water from within. I drink gratefully, looking back up at him, and take another breath. Just breathe.

"So, I've seen both Tamlen and Nolan since I got here. I've dreamt of both of them. Now, with the Dalish, it turns out that Bonding is more than marriage, it's a real tie between the souls, so that when they've both died, they can find each other again in the Fade. Well, Tamlen is convinced I'm Mahariel, because when he stands next to me, I feel like her. Nolan says that... that I need to find and reclaim the piece of my soul lost with Mahariel, or I'll never be safe from the demon that tried to eat me in Antiva." I swallow.

"Because there is a thread connecting me to that fragment, a thread that is like blood to a predator, and... there's a predator out there that already has my scent." Alistair closes his eyes and hangs his head, fingers tightening around mine. The word 'fear' ceases to have any meaning; it is a yawning chasm that just grows bigger every time I figure out or learn something new.

"But Anders killed it," Alistair protests, and I shake my head.

"Defeated. I don't think you can actually kill a demon while it's in the Fade. It seems to be that it just dissipates, that it can be rendered temporarily powerless, but it'll reform again, somewhere else. I think this because... it... apparently has. And it's figured out that I'm connected to Mahariel, somehow, because it's been laying traps for me. Any time I ask a question, or if I say or do something that is connected to her, it's like- like ringing a gong."

I don't realise what implication this will have for Alistair until he looks up at me with a sense of sickened, dull horror. Of course. The Andraste dragon. Unfortunately, that's also a very, very apt analogy, because it does, indeed, call a demon.

Then something else occurs to me.

"What..." I swallow thickly, suddenly having a white-knuckle grip on Alistair's hands. "What if it can do that because it already has hold of the missing piece?"

He takes a deep breath, the thought unnerving him as well, then shakes his head. "I don't know. How do you know you can trust this Nolan person? He's in the Fade. Tamlen may not even be what he seems. After all, the Pride demon has impersonated someone you knew before, and did it well enough to fool you."

I shake my head. "I-" I can't just dismiss this theory out of hand. Clearly I've been blinded to all the possibilities here. "You might be right - it's definitely not as stupid as the Sloth demon - but... I don't know. They're not asking anything of me. They're not trying to get anything from me, they're just trying to keep me away from whatever it is that comes when the gong happens."

He nods, taking another breath. "Thank you for telling me the truth," he says at last. "How long have you known these things?"

"We just put all the pieces together tonight. That's probably what started my screaming, because the demon or something showed up and tried to get into the place where we were hiding. I had trouble waking up. The last thing I saw was Tamlen drawing his bow, ready to shoot it as soon as it was visible, and then Nolan slapped me, which woke me up."

Alistair scrubs a hand over his face, then runs it through his hair, agitated, trying to wrap his brain around the problem. "Well, what do we do?" he finally asks.

I lay my head against his shoulder, weary beyond belief. "I kept asking Nolan the same thing. Or, well, it was more like a game of statements, but it amounts to that. He said he couldn't be sure how to pull the 'dead' portion of my soul out of the Fade, that it's never been done before, and he thinks I have to be in the waking world when it happens. He's afraid there might be a tear in the Veil if we do it wrong."

"He also doesn't realise just how much he sounds like a demon, with that talk," Alistair says darkly, and I swallow.

That's a whole new fear I hadn't considered. What if 'Mahariel' turns out to be a demon that I just completely invited into myself?

"Uh... well... I guess... When it comes time, if they try to get me to agree to anything, I'll say no. I know the language they use: you have to agree to let them in. If it's really a piece of me that just can't find me, then I won't have to _invite_ it. It shouldn't have a truly separate consciousness. It should just become a part of me again."

"That's a lot of 'shoulds'," Alistair says dryly, and I nod.

"I know. I'm sorry... I wish I had better answers."

He shakes his head again. "So, you make it sound like we need to go in search of the Dalish again."

I bite my lip. Do I dare? I'm just a _shem'len_ to them now.

"Maybe the facts that I speak Elvish, look like me, and can call members of the clan by name, will throw them enough to at least hear us out."

"What do you intend to do?" he asks, and I look up.

"Visit my grave."

"Now there's something you never expect to hear someone say," he murmurs wryly, and I laugh, breaking the tension between us. It doesn't banish our worries - there are far too many of them for that - but it does ease things, and settle the burden more firmly on both of our shoulders instead of just mine.

_A burden shared is a burden halved._

Yes, Gramma.

I don't want to go back to sleep, but necessity drives me. Tomorrow is going to be a long walk, or else a jangling, skeleton-killing ride. I'd rather take my chances with Morpheus.

_Morpheus!_

Long time since I made prayer to the Dream Lord.

What sacrifice might the son of Night incarnate demand for his assistance?

As I tuck myself tightly in against Alistair's side once more, I close my eyes and pray.

_Powerful Morpheus, Lord of Dreams, hear my prayer.  
I only ever began to believe in the gods because of you,  
because of Nolan,  
because of the times when my dreams have been prophetic,  
and I was a Cassandra,  
because of the times when I travelled your domain in truth,  
and I could feel it when I woke, that cool cling of mist just tasted.  
Poseidon may have rule of my waking life,  
but it was you who called to me first,  
from the shadows and the darkness,  
my first solace, my first safety,  
your realm.  
Sweet Morpheus, they've taken the peace you gifted me with,  
they've stolen it and profaned it.  
I have never asked of you,  
my Lord,  
only offered such praises as my soul can sing,  
so grateful have I been for my nights of relief.  
Please help me.  
Please..._


	36. Memories and Metaphors

Two days after my little midnight screaming fit, it begins pissing down rain. We spend several nights huddled under wagons, a few in wayside barns or village taverns, and all our days dripping and trudging through mud. It's a lot more tiring to slog through mud than it is to walk on hard-packed road, and I collapse each night to sleep like the dead, too deeply to dream.

Perhaps Morpheus heard me.

My first clue that we're nearing Redcliffe is the giant windmills. They rise up out of the general grey mist around us, turning slowly, looking ghostly. The road becomes paved, then crosses a sturdy stone bridge, short but well-made, and I realise after we get over it that it's the same gap that was spanned by a humbly-made cobble arch last time I was... here.

Alistair catches me turning back to look at it in surprise, but doesn't comment, coming to a halt beside me. "We're here, you know," he says, voice low and tense, and I nod.

"What do we do? Go straight up there? We've shown up in our armour before..." I swallow. Why is Redcliffe doing this to me? The ground between me and Mahariel is getting muddier. "What if I just put my helm on?" I ask him seriously, looking up at him, and he hesitates. "We show up with Ponka, and I look like me. Keep it on, I sound like me, too."

"Like _her_, you mean," he murmurs, and I grit my teeth a little.

"I'm as close as it gets," I reply querulously. I'm tired of this. I want to just march in there and have it over with.

Alistair's eyes harden, making me lean back a little bit. "You're not nearly cold enough," he says bluntly. "I'm sorry, Lily, but Zevran was blind. How he could not notice that you're a completely different person is beyond me."

I swallow. "How cold?"

"I never thought blue eyes could hold warmth, Lily, until I met _you_. Hers were hard, and cold as silverite."

Wintry gaze. I think back, very hard, over the life of Mahariel, remembering her mind, and close my eyes. "Let's go up to Lloyd's for a minute," I say, my voice low and firm. "I need to do some reading, and I'd like to be dry, just for a little while. We'll get a room, and see about things in the morning."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

After a blessedly warm bath, a hot meal, and dry clothes, I am feeling much more human and reasonable. Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of my trunk, I move the clothes aside to reveal my stash of books, both Mahariel's journal and mine among them.

"Alistair..." I begin, looking up, and he's leaning over the end of the bed, looking down at the trunk.

His eyes meet mine a moment before I open my mouth and he shakes his head, jaw set. "No, don't tell me you're going to pick that thing up again. I almost lost you the last time you did that."

I bite my lip and shrug awkwardly. "There's information in here that's not in my version, just like there's information in mine that's not in hers."

He worries at his lower lip, and I see the fear in there, that I'll be consumed by Mahariel and not come back. "Lily... What if..."

I close my eyes, nodding. "I know. But... Magic is willpower and knowledge. I know, now, that this is a living link of the chain that binds me to this world. I'll never be able to make peace with her if I can't even pick up the journal we wrote. I can run to the ends of two worlds, but I can't outrun myself."

He pauses for a long moment, watching me. "What if I read it instead?"

"No." The word is out of my mouth before I've even given it a thought.

_Zevran's read it._

Oh, you insidious and seductive voice. Be silent.

_Ah, but Alistair knows this, because you said it right in front of him when you explained yourself to Nathaniel._

Oh, and look at his face. The hardness there of a secret he knows I've shared with Zevran, but not him. The old rivalry, still alive, despite everything. He tries to hide it, but I know. He's not just afraid of me being eaten by Mahariel. He's afraid of the consequences for him, for us, if she takes over.

_He's right to worry._

I shudder. "I'm sorry. I don't willingly share my journal, except on the occasions where it becomes a sketchbook. That Zevran has read it is... not my preference."

His look is direct enough to make me swallow twice. "You sound like her."

"No, my love," I whisper, shaking my head and looking down at the book. "She sounds like _me_. Just not often enough for my liking." I reach forward, but hesitate at the last moment, meeting his gaze once more. "I trust you, Alistair."

I pick up the book.

The leather _is cool under my fingertips as they slide up his sides, looking for the buckles that will release my lover from his bindings. Hot flickers of gold glint on caramel skin and hair like spun sunlight, my Sunlight. Mine, as I am his, completely._

"

Sospira per me, cara mia,_" he whispers, hot breath and molten gold against my skin, the steel in his hands and the softness of his caress, his lips across my collarbone, and the flex of his stomach against mine, oh, and I do. I sigh for him, for him, my assassin, my deadly, beautiful man. Anything, anything for him. I would bring this nation to its knees if it tried to stop us. The world is at our feet, and he loves me, oh, he loves me. Back-to-back, my Sunlight, my shadow._

"

Ma'rlath, emma_ Zev," I whisper, senseless with the ecstasy that is his every touch. "_Emma sa'lath... emma sa'lath..._" I writhe beneath him, the only man who can inspire such heights, who can command such words from my lips. Never another. Nothing could ever compare. No one could ever hope to measure up._

The moonlight is a cold blanket when we finally stir from our torpor, shivering and regretting the lack of amenities. No matter. The moment we're standing, he pushes me against the smooth bark of the tree we've been laying beneath, kissing me breathless once more, just to hear the sound I make when I finally give in to him, sagging against his chest and winding my arms around his neck.

I drop the book with a gasp, pulling my hands away from it as though it burned me. My cheeks are cold. Reaching up with a trembling hand, I find that I must have been weeping floods. Alistair is watching me anxiously, such sorrow in his eyes.

Oh gods. Zevran.

Oh gods.

The hollow ache this memory has conjured in me is a ragged hole I don't want Alistair to be witness to. This is not his struggle, it's mine.

"Was I speaking?" I ask, my voice trembling, and he nods. I squeeze my eyes shut, bowing my head. "I'm sorry..." I whisper. Taking a deep breath, I meet his eyes again. "If I... if you lose me... Tell me, 'cedar and rain' and 'where the forest meets the sea'. Those are... phrases that could only call to me. Okay?"

He nods, catching my hands and kissing my fingertips before letting them go again, reluctantly. "I love you, Lily," he says, and in that moment, it sounds like such a burden. Oh gods, why does everything always have to be so complicated and difficult?

"I love you, too," I say, helplessly, my voice torn by tears. I'm tired of hurting. This was simple, easy, full of joy, once. And then I found the pouch of silver, and it all went to hell again.

_So was what you had with Zev, once, but then we arrived in Antiva._

Yes.

_Are you going to run from Alistair, now, too?_

Shut up. That's completely unfair. The Crows did this to us. _He_did this to us.

_But he acted on your word. Be careful what you wish for._

I clap my hands over my face and curl, the agony suddenly gagging me, shuddering hard as my body forces me to release it somehow, since I will not allow it to come out of my eyes. My hands are flat to the floor and my stomach hurts by the time I stop.

"Maker's breath, are you all right?" Alistair asks as I relearn how to breathe, glad that my hair shrouds my face as I fight to master it.

"No. This is really, really not fun," I say, my voice broken and small. Swallowing hard, I push my hair out of my face and sit up again, looking down at the book.

"You can't seriously be meaning to pick it up again," he says, and I glance at him.

"I am, yes," I say, glad to hear my voice stronger and more firm. He looks at me, more than a little incredulous, and I shake my head, exhaling slowly. "It's... like the spirit that was trapped in that crystal down in the depths of the Brecilian ruin. You remember that? It gave me knowledge in exchange for setting it free by smashing it on the altar."

"That wasn't you, that was her," he says, and I growl softly.

"Part of the problem here is that you draw such distinct lines," I say, feeling testy, and sort of distantly realising that there's something not quite like my usual self about this. I take a breath, letting my shoulders drop. "There never were any true lines, just two natures. It's not my usual or natural state to be hard bitten and wintry, but that doesn't mean I'm not capable of it. Sometimes what seems to be out of synch between her and me is simply a matter of what I'm like at extremes. You can't have forgot the night you saw me pushed that far. _Me_. Not her. It's just... She doesn't seem to be quite as compassionate, has different priorities, and I'm a lot older than her, in some ways. My strength is not what it once was. I'm trying, though. I was still weak and frightened when you first met me. Now I think maybe I'm stronger. Or... at least... I'd like to think so." I take another deep breath. "I'd like to stay that way." I wipe my hands on my pants, fingers still trembling, and reach for the book again. "Remember-"

"'Cedar and rain, where the forest meets the sea'," Alistair recites, and I nod.

"Okay, Mahariel. All is lost if you don't let us reach a balance," I murmur. "Please... I just want to _read_the journal."

The book has a curious _weight to it, as though it is more than just the physical tome itself, but something also living within. Dark and black, Flemeth's grimoire has a presence like a person, and I'm not at all sure I want to know what the cover is actually made of. Hopefully this will foil her, keep Morrigan safe. The last thing we need is Flemeth wandering around wreaking havoc with our plans. She may have helped us once, but that doesn't make her trustworthy. I'm glad she's dead._

"Ah,

cara_, I do not believe our Templar friend fares so well," Zev says, and I turn, leaving the hut. He was on his feet a moment ago, but now he lays on his back, staring at the sky. Impatiently, I shove his shield aside, and see the giant hole in his shoulder._

"You arse," I mutter, shaking my head. "You said you were all right."

"I'm just gonna... take a nap... right here..." he sing-songs, passing out. That's probably a mercy. Flemeth's fang was poisoned, and the flesh is a nasty mess.

Zev and I set to peeling him out of his armour, going as quickly as we dare, hoping he doesn't wake. Luck is with us, as we pull him up and tip him forward, going to work on both sides of him at once with the sharp little knives from the injury kit. We cut away the poisoned and blackened skin, pouring antidote over it, watching it hiss and smoke, smelling like charred flesh and blood. The bone of his shoulder blade gleams in the uncertain light, and I swallow, reminding myself not to breathe through my nose.

Quickly, before he loses too much blood, we pull the wrap around his shoulder and push it in place, having to hold it there because of the awkward angle, while it knits back together his torn flesh and muscle. Golden eyes catch mine as I shift my stance, and there is a moment of understanding between us.

Not here, not now, no, but as soon as a patch of darkness can be found... yes.

Creators, yes.

Alistair groans as the depression beneath my hand begins to firm and fill in, the flesh rolling and rippling. I maintain pressure until the movement stops, then pull the bandage away to reveal clean, pink, healthy new skin, but one very ugly scar.

"Sorry, Alistair, Flemeth really got you," I say, tracing the outside edge of it with a fingertip as he shakes his head, trying to clear it.

"Oh, wonderful. Another scar," he says, and I chuckle.

"We're all covered in them," I say, standing up. "And more to come. So pull up your smalls and let's get moving. This book feels... evil... and possibly alive. I want to get it out of my pack and into Morrigan's hands as soon as possible."

Alistair picks up his breastplate and examines the hole, looking glum, and I clap him on the shoulder. His uninjured one. I'm not cruel. "Ah, we'll get it fixed. Bodahn's got another set in the cart; we'll swap it out at camp, and have Mikhael take a look when we get up to the Peak. We're going there next anyway."

He nods, preoccupied, then glances at me. "Uh- Thank you. For... you know..." he says, shifting his shoulder, and I shrug.

"You'd do the same for me," I say simply, turning away. It's true. Every pair of hands, all for the same cause. We pick each other up. That's just how it is.

Look at him, though. He's so sad. That's not about the breast plate.

_What?_

He's alone. And he almost _died_.

_That's hardly my fault. We were all in that fight together. Anyway, I never made any secret of who I am. He just couldn't handle the truth, couldn't man up. Couldn't stand beside me, only in front of me. That's all he knows how to do._

Why isn't that enough?

_Why should it be? How are you going to run, if there is no clear way in front of you? How can you move forward if you're always behind?_

There's nothing wrong with wanting protection, or wanting to protect.

_I don't leave that up to others._

Yet you seek it from Zevran.

_It works because we're _equals_. He's not in front of me, he's beside me, or back-to-back with me. As it should be. Always._

I look at my man, the flex of his thigh as he walks peeking in flashes from between the slats of his armour and I remember the look he gave me, the promise-

Oh-

_-firelight flickers in his eyes as he unbuttons his-_

Oh gods-

_-and the glide of his hot, rough tongue across my-_

Please-

_-and I am completely breathless as I dance for him, yes, only for him, my Sunlight, my everything, as he kisses my neck, hands sliding under my hips, and I am_ suddenly on my back, arching, head falling back, but he's stopped, and the shadows are gone. I open my eyes, blinking in the candlelight of an inn room. My book is on my chest, and I catch it as I sit up, looking around.

"Where's Zev?" I ask, my automatic first question, because I've only got Alistair and Ponka right now, which is... not right. That never happens. Rising easily, I go over to the window, peeking out. "Redcliffe?" I turn around. "We were going to the Peak- Did something happen?" I don't recognise the clothes I'm wearing. "Where's my armour? Creators, Alistair, don't just sit there staring at me, what in the name of all that's sacred is going on?" He seems frozen on the moment, and I shake my head, impatient.

Morrigan will know. I stride toward the door, halfway there, when Alistair speaks again. "Wait, Lily-" Something in his voice is strange, and I turn, feeling the frown tugging at the corners of my mouth. "You said-" He swallows, and I fold my arms over my chest, holding the journal against my breast. Why was I in here with my book... and _Alistair_? "'Cedar and rain'," he says, and I blink as the simple, strange words rattle my bones.

What is that curious thud in my chest-

_Cedar?_

"'Where the ocean'-" he begins, then frowns, shaking his head. "No, ah- 'Where the forest meets the sea'."

_HOME_-

The room spins, and I feel sick, stumbling and fetching up against the wall.

_Cre_Oh_ators_gods-

The book slips from my hands to land with a thud, followed by me, a moment later.

When I open my eyes, I have a very close-up view of the grain on the floorboards, and Alistair is a flurry of movement to one side of me. I don't seem to be able to move, my ears ringing loudly like the aftermath of a Nine Inch Nails concert. I flop like a rag doll, barely able to do more than blink as he hauls me up into his lap, cradling me against his chest. I can't hear him, just a dull murmur, as feeling slowly filters back into my perceptions. I feel hollow, sick... _very_sick. A sudden surge of adrenaline has me flailing upward out of his arms; I scramble over to the window, and throw it open just in time. Fortunately, it's just ground outside, and the rain will wash away the evidence soon enough.

Alistair touches my shoulder when I finally quit heaving, handing me a wet cloth. "Thank you," I rasp, wiping my face and shuddering. I close the window, lean my head against it, just taking a breath. "Are you okay?"

"Me?" he asks, surprised. "Maker, Lily, I'm not the one who was just hanging out the window," he says, and I laugh, though it's hoarse.

"This is such a bad plan," I say, shaking my head. "I'm beginning to wish we'd never left Antiva. Things were quiet and made sense. Now I'm in Ferelden and it's just chaos all over again. Oh gods, my head." I groan, rubbing at my temples. "Okay, I officially hate magic. Let's be done with it now, please," I say, absolutely uselessly, and he chuckles.

"Wouldn't _that_be nice." I feel the heat of him at my back before his hand rests on my hip, and close my eyes.

Mahariel, I can't afford to be in conflict. I'm not you.

_Liar._

You're _definitely_not me.

_I bet that keeps you warm at night._

I knock my head against the window, just once.

_Be careful what you wish for._

"Uh- I need to ground... this isn't right," I say, shaking my head. Alistair pulls the cloth from my hand and gives me a cup; I take a sip of watered wine. Wrapping my fingers around the talismans of my necklace, I remember who I am. I centre myself by the icons of my faith and the mantras I've been taught, running through the meditations I've used for decades, until the familiar cascade of images and rhythms returns me to a calmer state of mind.

This takes a really, really long time.

However, it drowns out and pushes away the vestige of Mahariel that was far too loud in my consciousness, which is both a blessing and a relief.

The wine has been warmed by my hand by the time I can open my eyes. I've been aware of the patter of the rain for a long time, as it lent rhythm to some of the poetry, but now the quiet and familiar susurration is a balm to my soul. The sound of rain is eternal, and the same no matter where I am. I take another sip of the wine, then finish it, finding myself thirsty.

Alistair has snuffed most of the lamps in the room and sits propped on the bed, reading by the light of the one remaining. He looks up when I turn, and all these expressions fly across his face in a heartbeat: vulnerability, quickly hidden by that stone grimness, then again followed by the softness of the way he looks at me, finally settling on the worry that seems to be etching new lines in his face that I don't like.

"You've stopped glowing," he says, and I blink.

"I-" This isn't the first time someone's told me that. "Sorry... I can never tell." I take a deep breath, joining him on the bed, and he lifts his arm, inviting me to curl against him.

I don't hesitate, though something within me clenches, afraid of what might happen.

As my head comes to rest on his shoulder, the one I just saw repaired, the pucker of long-healed skin brushes my cheek, and I can hear his heart beating, strong and steady. The summery heat of his body and the strength in his shield arm as he wraps it around me, the scent of his neck and the familiar way I fit against his side, bring with them a peace of their own. I don't know what I was expecting, but it doesn't happen, and I collapse against him, closing my eyes. For a time, I am able to just let us be, existing in the moment and grateful for it.

His hand wanders up my side, slowly sliding into my hair, and I hum softly. "You're really here, aren't you?" I nod, tightening my arm around his waist, and a measure of the tension goes out of his shoulders as he presses a soft kiss to the centre of my forehead. "Did you learn anything?"

I make some mangled little snort, not quite a laugh. "Yeah... a lot. Just... nothing about Teagan. It seems to be that whatever I'm thinking about when I pick it up is what it gives me. I'll have to focus my subconscious, and that's not an easy thing to do."

He looks at me for a long time before he speaks, long enough that I begin to feel a little uncomfortable, watching him discard a thousand questions before finally settling on one. "Do I even want to know?"

I bite my lip. "Uh... the first time I picked it up, the fact that Tamlen made the journal flitted through my head just as I touched it, so what I saw was when he gave it to me. The second time... I noticed the leather, and... that..." I fumble awkwardly, blushing, and he rolls his eyes.

"Right, I think I get the picture," he says, turning away, and I sigh softly.

"But the third time, I was thinking of you, and I remembered I was there when you got this scar," I say, rubbing my cheek against it. "And that's when I started being able to reach her, sort of."

This gets his attention, and he turns back, looking at me sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Uh... I... I don't know. Have you ever had a conversation with yourself in your head?"

He blinks at me, brow furrowing with suspicion as he answers. "Yes...?"

"That's what it's like. She's my second voice, another part of me. I hear her, and she's me, just... not exactly. She was here for things I wasn't, and I'm beginning to see some of those things, feel them. It's like getting back lost memories. But... I think because I'm missing the piece of me that's her, the memories are... riding me, and making it hard for me to shake her off when I come out of them. I'm getting lost to them, and I don't want to do that."

"No," Alistair says firmly. "That's not going to happen. Lily... don't pick it up again. Please." He's suddenly in motion, flipping me onto my back, and props himself on one arm above me, searching my face intently. "I'm afraid of what could happen," he whispers, and that coming from the lips of _this_man makes my blood chill. "I don't want to lose you," he says, hand rising in my peripheral vision to cup my cheek. His thumb strokes over my cheekbone, and my eyes slip closed as I turn my face, pressing into his hand and kissing the ball of his thumb. "Not like that," he whispers. "Don't sacrifice yourself, not again, please, I couldn't take that," he says, and the way his voice is choked, I have to look up at him again. The agony, oh gods, the look on his face. He feels for me what Zevran felt for Mahariel.

_And what we feel for Zevran. A love that moves worlds._

Shut up. I love this man. My life with him makes sense.

I can feel the tears burning the corners of my eyes and I reach up, covering his hand with mine as I shake my head. "I don't want to. I want to stay myself. I want to go home. I want our life back. I want _you_," I confess, all in a choked rush, and he squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against mine.

"Maker, Lily..." The pad of his thumb crosses my lower lip, and I notice his hands are shaking. "Do you have any idea what it does to me when you say things like that?" I shake my head, eyes wide, and he leans down to kiss me softly. "I- You make me crazy. I can't think straight. Maker's breath, and I can't imagine my life without you, now. Not... Not ever."

My heart thuds dangerously in my chest as he pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, and he swallows twice, jaw flexing as he steels himself for... something. "Maybe this is too fast, I don't know. I wanted to wait for the perfect time, the perfect place, but when will it be perfect? If things were, we might never have even met, but we sort of just... happened. And... despite this being the least perfect time, I really don't want to wait any longer," he says, making my stomach clench. "I want you to marry me, Lily. Here, in the chantry, before we leave Redcliffe, before anything else happens, in case-"

My heart is thundering in my ears as I press my fingers to his lips, shaking my head. "No, no don't talk like that; we have plenty of time."

He catches my hand, kissing my fingertips before pulling them away from his mouth. "Do we? You don't know that. _I_don't know that. Anything could happen. I nearly died in Amaranthine, and you-" He shakes his head, grimacing.

"If I'm taken over by Mahariel, it won't mean a thing to her, that we were married," I say helplessly, and he winces.

"I know. But... it will still mean everything to me. You might be like her sometimes, but by the Maker, Lily, she's barely like you. She could only hope to be. And if she takes you over, it will be like you died. She's only echoes of you; it would tear me apart. But I could take it, I could take it, if- if I _knew_ that this, that you- That we were _real_..."

Some cold comfort to hold to his breast, if Mahariel manages to erase me, that we were something worth fighting for, that what I feel for him is real, that the future we've hoped for together was real, even if I cease to be.

How can I say no? I knew this was coming before we left Antiva. I just didn't think... it'd be like this.

"Yes," I say quietly, before I think too much, before I change my mind, before Mahariel starts whispering again about everything I've left behind.

"I- Wait, what?"

I can't help but laugh at the surprised expression on his face. Maybe he thought I'd take more convincing.

"I said 'yes'. Yes. Before anything else happens, before we leave for the Brecilian and whatever is waiting for me there, yes. I'm yours."

The wonder and awe breaking over his face, the sheer joy in his eyes as it sinks in that I've just agreed to marry him, makes my heart swell to bursting.

I have never been so thoroughly ravished in all my life. Everyone in the bar will know his name by morning, because there's no keeping silent, not this time, and he revels in every moment of my cries for him.

My tiger.

Oh gods.

This shouldn't scare me like it does.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Redcliffe Castle is incredibly imposing, rising out of the mist abruptly and hulking over us as we cross the long bridge on the approach to the gates in the morning.

Alistair is decked out in full plate, and after some dithering, I've elected to wear one of the dresses Lels fixed up for me in Antiva. A pretty one, just a touch too formal for tea, but not ostentatious.

Despite my cloak, I am still soaked by the time we are hailed, and I let Alistair do the talking, keeping my hood close about my face. One of the guards runs off, and we're met shortly afterward by the seneschal in the courtyard. The man must be unknown to Alistair, because he draws himself up and goes all official, so I try to fade back a bit, into his shadow.

"I am Warden-Commander Alistair, currently based in Antiva. Arl Teagan is expecting me," he says, handing over the formal letter of invitation that was included with his very perfunctory and chilling missive.

"Ah yes, Ser, we were informed of your arrival last night. The Arl is waiting for you. Ah... but first, if I might suggest, perhaps the lady would prefer a moment to... freshen up a bit?" He looks down his nose at me, eyeing the wet and muddy hem of my dress, and my shoulders drop.

"I'm not so sure anything can be done for it," I say, shaking my head.

"Perhaps one of the serving girls will be able to see to it," the man offers, and I look up at Alistair.

"Do you think it's going to matter that much?" Alistair shrugs awkwardly, and I frown. "Well, standing out here in the rain isn't helping anything. All right, I'll let someone look at it."

"Right. I'll go find Teagan and try to... smooth the way," he says, conscious of our audience.

I smile. "Thanks." Turning back to the seneschal, I discover he's conjured up a guard.

"Ser Halek will show you the way," the seneschal says, and Ponka falls into step beside me as I turn to follow the guard, parting ways with Alistair. "Ah, just a moment," he calls after us, and I stop, turning. "The mabari, no. He mustn't be going inside the castle all wet and covered in mud. Send him around to the servant's entrance off the kitchens. I'm sure they'll be happy to show him to the kennels."

I stand right where I'm at. "Uh... Ponka's a free dog; he doesn't sleep in kennels."

There's a moment where the seneschal blinks at me, not having expected me to object, then he shakes himself. "Ah, no, that is fine, my lady, however he does need to be scrubbed off and fed, and the kennels is the place for that."

I don't like it, but it makes sense. I growl softly under my breath, crouching down, trying to keep my skirt out of the muck at the same time. "Okay, boy, you heard the man. May as well try to find something to eat while you have the chance. Don't let them lock you up," I add, dropping my voice so that I can't be overheard past the pouring of the rain, then reach out to scratch him behind the ears. He barks once, affirmative, then licks my hand, making me laugh. "Okay, okay, be good then. Don't eat any chickens they don't give you on purpose," I say, pointing at him and fixing him with a stern eye.

He makes a growly little querulous noise at me, and I smile. Alistair follows the seneschal up the stairs to the main doors, Ponka trots off, and the guard leads me to a side door. As we pass down long hallways, it begins to seem like we're headed more toward the wrong end of the estate, if my fuzzy mental map and generally good sense of direction are any indication. I turn around, trying to get my bearings, and notice that there are three more guards behind me whose presence I was completely unaware of. I stop short, and so do they, all of us eyeing each other. I turn to the guard who was leading me, and he's stopped to.

I realise I'm surrounded. They see the change in me, the moment I begin to feel hunted, they all do, because they were waiting for it, expecting it.

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute," I say quickly, turning again, trying to keep them all in sight as I hold out my hands, trying to ward off whatever it is these people think they need to do. "What's going on? Why do I need four guards to go someplace to clean off my skirt?"

The three who were behind me draw their swords, and I jump back, heart in my throat, crashing into the wall. The one who was leading me calmly gestures toward the open end of the hallway, and his smile is cold as winter. "We're your welcoming party, my lady Crow. We're here to take you to your chambers." The darkness around his eyes and the way he shows far too many teeth when he says this tells me he means subterranean chambers.

All the blood drains out of my head, leaving me feeling sick and dizzy.

No wonder they didn't want Ponka with me.

No wonder they separated me from Alistair as soon as they could.

"This- This is a mistake," I say, not liking the stuttering of my tongue, nor the shaking of my voice. "I'm not a Crow."

The lead guard just laughs. "I knew you'd say that." The three with swords bring their points to bear, forcing me to move further down the hallway if I don't want to be skewered, and I pace away from the wall warily, still trying to keep all of them in sight and looking for an exit, while knowing with sinking heart that there won't be any.

Oh gods.

_Athena protect me._

"But you can't lie to me," he continues blithely, "Because you were seen with the head of the Crows himself. He gave you some sort of instruction, for not long after, you took up residence with the Warden Commander. A Hero of the Blight, no less." My back hits a wall, and as the lead leans in close to me, I realise it's actually a hidden door. All of them are looking at me, and that cruel smile still plays around the lead guard's lips. "I hear that Crows don't break easily, and I've been waiting to find out whether that's true."

The stench of human suffering assails my nose, making me gag, as he grabs my arm and drags me into the room. "I'm not a Crow," I tell him desperately. "I just know him. The same way I know Alistair. Please, this is a mistake! Arl Teagan doesn't realise who I am! If you let me see him, just let me talk to him for five minutes, I promise you, he will tell you to stop this-"

The lead just laughs, unbuckling the straps on a rack. "Who do you think sent the order?"

Oh gods. Oh gods.

"No, no, this is wrong, this is wrong," I babble, backing away from them, my hands held out, even as two of the three followers converge on me. "I'm not a Crow. Stop! I'm not a Crow!"

The lead sounds weary. "I'd hardly expect a Crow to admit to it, especially not the kind who'd be sent in to spy long-term. You'd have to be very, very good at your job." His eyes are flat and cold, hard as steel and twice as ruthless. He would watch me being flayed alive and never bat an eyelash.

The knowledge is a cold stone in my stomach, a slap in the face, knocking me breathless as the men reach for me.

_Don't just stand there! Act!_

I duck as their hands near my arms, hitting the floor and rolling between them. I pop back up to my feet, but the fourth guy, the one I forgot about-

_-stupid, stupid-_

-is standing there ready to meet me, his sword tip coming up to point at my throat as I rise, stopping me short. He very deliberately rests the point at the hollow of my collarbone, so I can feel it when I swallow, and his eyes are just as emotionlessly reptilian as the leader's. Slowly, my hands rise from my sides, and I close my eyes as the two guards behind me take my arms.

_Oh gods._

"I'm not a Crow," I say again, but no one listens. "If you could wait even just five minutes and let me send him a message-

"Strip her," the lead says, sounding bored.

_Oh gods._

"No! I'm not a Crow!" I shriek, beginning to struggle, but it does me no good. They've got hold of me now, and there are four of them, and only one of me. I fight them, though. I scream, and I struggle, and I kick and bite and scratch, until one of them gets me in a hard right cross and I'm seeing stars. I'm not really in control of my faculties again until they've got my dress half-off.

That's when I remember about my tattoo.

Right about the time they find it.

"See," the lead says, laughter and triumph in his voice. "Marked."

"Stop!" I shout again, now that I've come around enough to be able to use my voice. "Stop! I'm not a Crow! Let go of me!" I scream and struggle some more, my grim victory short-lived when a solid kick delivered to one's face earns me a punch in the stomach that takes all the fight out of me and leaves me gasping for air.

By the time I'm able to draw a full breath to scream again, I'm already stripped and strapped to a rack.

_Oh gods._

"No! I'm not a Crow! I'm not a Crow! I'm not-"

They don't waste any time in striking the first blow. Flogger, by the feel of it. They mean to beat me, first. The thud of the impact on my back knocks my head against the wood. On the third strike, I scream again, but it's Alistair's name on my lips this time, and then, after half a dozen more, because that's doing me no good at all, and because I'm terrified, and because I'm pretty sure I'm about to die down here, I start crying.

The next blow doesn't land, and I don't know what to make of that, too frightened to contemplate the horrible possibilities. I hear them talking behind me, then someone leaves.

"What is your mission?" the lead guard asks me, still bored, and I shake my head.

"I'm not a Crow," I tell him, my voice breaking, because I know there's no answer I can give that isn't going to earn me another beating. "I don't have a mission."

I'm already exhausted by the time he's done with the next set. My whole body feels like a mass of bruises, my bones creaking; I can feel every little crack in them, and that is so, so many.

"What is your mission?" he asks again, and I sob.

"I love him," I confess, half senseless. "Alistair..." I moan, still trying to call him, futile as I know it is. I'll be lucky if I see him again. I'll be lucky if I see the sky again. Or anything at all. "I'm not a spy."

There is a heavy, put-upon sigh behind me as something lands on wood with a thud and a clack. "Well, I didn't really have high hopes for the flogger, but you never know," the lead says conversationally, presumably to the other person or people in the room. "We'll have to try something else. Maybe something sharp."

My entire body tenses at this, fingers scrabbling at the bindings around my wrists, but there's nowhere to go, no-one who will help me. "No!" I scream. "No! I'm not a Crow! Oh gods, don't cut me! I'm not a Crow!"

The lead paces around me, something dragging on the floor, something that sounds like slithering and metal scraping on stone. Oh gods. Not a scourge. As I see his boots stop in front of me, I can see the tails of it resting on the stone next to his foot. Thongs of leather, tipped with little bits of metal.

Meant to flay.

_Oh gods._

"No! No, don't, please, gods, don't! I'm not a spy! I'm not a Crow!" I struggle, yes, of course I do, but that's no good. Of course it's no good. That's what this thing was built for.

And this room was built to contain the screaming that follows.

I don't even know how long it is anymore. The strike of the scourge is white-hot lightning that I cannot escape, razors that slice me and hot curtains that flow down my back, dripping onto the floor.

"I'm not a Crow... I have no mission..."

There's no other answer I can give.

Time ceases to have meaning. I exist in an eternal 'now', a haze of inescapable misery, of screaming and torment, men shouting at me and more pain. Their tortures become more creative, changing periodically, visiting upon me every humiliation and agony they can think of - and that is so, so many, considering that I am a naked and bound woman - without actually attacking internal organs, and through it all, the only answer I can give:

"I'm not a Crow."

Blood, metallic in my mouth, my life running down my legs in thick streams.

_-they've simply laid into him while he was still dressed, but then I realize the tatters are _him_-_

It's my turn.

_Zev... Zev... Take me away from all this... Come back..._

Away and beyond the sea, a thread that leads to my life tugs strongly, in time with my heartbeat, a thrumming on the cord that he cannot fail to note. I can feel it ebbing.

_Oh gods, I'm so sorry, my love... I tried..._

I'm not sure who the thought is addressed to.

I hear my torturer's voice, but it doesn't mean anything. His face swims into view, loud, but I can't understand him.

"I'm not a Crow," I try to say. I don't know if he can understand me. It doesn't matter. His mouth twists in disgust. A few moments later, I'm peeled off the rack, sticking to it by my own congealed blood. The two men who have been helping the torturer toss me in a cell in the corner, and I see the door swing shut. I don't care. I barely felt the impact with the floor, and I just lay where they threw me, because it's too hard to move, hurts too much to even think.

The next thing I know, there is a cold, blue light at my temple, and I shake my head, closing my eyes and shying from it. A new man's voice makes its way into my awareness, coming from somewhere on the other side of the light.

"-'s breath, were you trying to kill her?"

"She should have broken by now." That's the lead guard. "Just shut up and do your job, mage."

I can feel some of the fire and throb fading from my skin, and exhale. I'm not sure whether to be glad of it. On the one hand, yes, good, no more cuts. On the other, it means that the flesh is ready to be ripped open and bruised again.

"I'm here to help you. I guarantee you the Arl knows nothing of this," he whispers. "But if it's any consolation, you're still-"

The door creaks and another man's voice, this one deeper, gruff and gravelly, cuts off whatever the mage was going to say. "Soldier! Report!" he barks, and something about it tugs on my mind.

"Ah, good," the mage says, looking relieved.

"Sending for a sodding healer? You were only meant to be questioning her!"

"Crows don't break easily, ser," my torturer says.

"I'm not a Crow," I croak weakly, silence following for a few moments.

"Maker's sweaty left testicle," the commander murmurs, sounding as though he finds what he's looking at to be vile and wrong. I hear booted feet, and then the creak of metal hinges. Someone crouches next to me, and looking up, I see a face that is really, really familiar. Craggy, brown-haired and frowning, it takes me a moment, but I recognise him. "Murdoch?" My bruised mouth resists forming his name, but I take him by surprise, and I see his eyes widen.

Oh gods, someone who knows me, even a little bit.

"Murdoch, Murdoch, you have to help me; they don't know who I am! They think I'm a Crow! Tell them I'm not a Crow!" I babble hysterically, and his brow furrows.

"Who did you say she is?" he asks.

"Ah, the name given was 'Lady Cassia'," my torturer says, and I shake my head, though it pains me.

"No," I whisper desperately. "It's Lily. Murdoch, look at me. Look at my eyes. I'm Lily Mahariel. Please-"

He turns back to me so quickly it's a wonder his neck doesn't snap, looking at me critically, strangely. "You're mad. The Hero is dead."

"I live," I say simply, because it's my only hope, and force a smile, remembering her bravado, though I'm sure it resembles more of a grimace by now. "But only just."

"Lily Mahariel was a _Dalish_," Murdoch says patiently, clearly now believing that he's talking to a woman unhinged.

"I know," I whisper, finding that I have to because my voice is too ragged for anything between that or a scream. "I know. I'm a _shem_now, and maybe that's a punishment, but I was here, Murdoch. I was here when you asked me to help, when it looked like there was nothing that would save you. I found the oil and I talked to Dwyn, and I found the child, and I convinced the Mother to bless the soldiers, and I gave sovereigns to Kaitlyn and Bella, and I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with you in the market square and kept them from cutting you down. Murdoch, I was here, I was here..." Was any of it something the tales don't tell? I have no idea. I barely met this man. "Please..." I beg, and by the look on his face, he is beginning to waver.

"Please," I repeat. "You don't even have to let me go, just-" What can I use as a bargaining chip? What do I know about him, about Teagan, about the siege? Anything, come on... My mind skitters over all the things that needed doing before I could leave this town, alighting on the mess here, and the way I came into the castle the first time, and inspiration hits. "Just tell Teagan I said this one thing: I never did remember to give back his ring. Just the one thing. Please." It's true. He gave me a ring to use as a key for the windmill's trap door. I never wrote it out, and there's no plot point to it that says otherwise. I bet it's the big signet that's still in my jewellery box in Antiva.

He hesitates, brow furrowed with suspicion, then pulls away. "Take the Arl the message, and tell him that she claims to be Lily Mahariel," he says, and I hear someone leave the room. "Oh, and seize him," he says, and I hear my torturer respond with surprise. There is a brief struggle, while he protests that he was only working for the good of the Arl, quickly fading.

"Thank you," I croak. My throat is a desert that has never known rain. I must have lost so much blood.

"Don't thank me yet, girl. If the Arl doesn't know what you're talking about, this will be a very long night."

Night? Oh gods, how long have I been here? Alistair must be ready to tear the walls down with his teeth.

I drift again as the healer finishes his work and leaves, and the next thing I'm aware of is angry voices from the other side of the door.

A sudden bolt of adrenaline courses through me, giving my voice strength. "Alistair!" I scream, and there's a momentary pause followed by several thuds and a few pained cries, before the door slams open. Within two breaths, he is next to me, brushing the hair from my face with gentle fingers.

"Maker, Lily, I'm so sorry. I had no idea..." he murmurs quickly, fury in his voice that is white-hot and barely controlled.

"I know... I know..." I whisper, horrified that he's trying to take blame for this. This is my fault, for using Teagan's name, for trying to step into Mahariel's shoes, and now I have to, whether I like it or not.

This is my fault, for loving Zevran.

It's just the price I have to pay.

_And you don't even get to be at his side._

I moan piteously as Alistair carefully helps me off the floor. I stick to it, glued down by the blood that has dried beneath me, and totter unsteadily as gravity takes effect, only staying upright because he has hold of me.

"Maker's breath, have some respect," Alistair snaps at someone, folding me protectively in his cloak. He picks me up gingerly, cradling me against his chest. I'm shaking so much, it's all I can do to just wrap my arm around his neck, the familiar scent of cedar on his skin bringing tears to my eyes.

"Oh gods," I whisper, my voice squeaking around the edges, "I thought I'd never see you again."

"I'm going to get you out of here, Lily," he murmurs, arms tightening around me. It hurts, but it's a hurt that I want. It's a hurt that means I'm safe. "And then I swear, I'm never letting anyone take you from my side again." He's moving now, long strides eating ground at a rate that would be shocking to me if I had sense enough to measure it. I drift again, lulled by the fact that I'm about as protected as possible at the moment, and pulled under by complete exhaustion. Conversation buzzes around me, but I hardly hear the half of it.

"-invited me into your home-" Alistair's voice, rumbling under my ear, towering rage.

"-every intelligence that she was a Crow-" My torturer, trying to defend himself.

"-never authorised anything of the sort-" Teagan.

"-dripping on the floor!" A woman's voice, alarmed.

"Maker's breath!" Alistair again. "Get the healer!"

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

It is a particularly loud clap of thunder that rouses me. The first things I'm aware of are a heavy body next to mine, pinning me down to a bed by the blankets over me, and the sound of torrential rain. I open my eyes to find Alistair sitting right next to me, my hand engulfed by his as he reads by the light of a small lamp at his elbow. Ponka is a snoring weight behind me, and we are in a fairly well-appointed room that speaks of us still being present in Redcliffe Castle, rather than back at the inn, where I'd much rather be.

The idea that we're still in the castle gives me an unpleasant jolt, and I whimper involuntarily, fingers flexing around Alistair's. He looks down at me, immediately setting the book aside, and smooths my hair from my face with his free hand. "You're awake," he observes. "How do you feel?"

"Like someone beat the hell out of me and I lost a lot of blood," I respond, shifting gingerly. I can feel all the echoes, but everything seems to be in place, more or less. He reaches behind him and pulls a cup of water off the table, sliding an arm under me to help me sit up enough to drink it, before he lays me back down again. "Why are we still in the castle?" I try really, really hard not to sound panicky, but I don't want to be here. "Alistair, why haven't we left yet?" My voice is spiralling upward very quickly, and I bury my face in his arm, clinging to him tightly.

"Shh- Shh... it's okay, Lily, honestly. We're safe. Teagan never issued any orders for you to be hurt; he ordered you detained and questioned, but not tortured."

I laugh bitterly. "He didn't expect torture to come from an order to question a prisoner?"

Alistair frowns. "No. He doesn't condone it. The man was acting independently. Apparently he thought that if you were a Crow, the only way to get answers would be torture, but he hid this plan from Teagan, assuming that the ends would justify the means."

I look up at him for a long moment, then just shake my head.

"Someone's lying. If Teagan doesn't condone it, that guy's had a lot of time and money sunk into preparing a room just for me. And he's tested it out more than a few times, as well. None of the guards were surprised, nor did they object. In fact, they helped."

Alistair's mouth thins to a hard line, and I can see his jaw flexing as he works to master himself. "We're safe right now," he repeats. "I won't let anyone touch you."

_He's said that before._

Shut up; this was not his fault. Don't you dare paint him with my blood.

I'm exhausted already. "Alistair... don't let go," I plead, fingers tightening around his as I feel my consciousness slipping again.

"Never, love. Never."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

When I wake, I find that I've lost two days: one to torture, and one to recovery. Teagan sends me a formal letter of apology, and a humble request that I meet with him before I leave, with the understanding that I may choose to tell him to summarily fuck off, and he would bear me no ill will for it. I'm still feeling weak, but I actually do want to talk to him, now that I know it wasn't him who gave the orders for my creative detainment, so I accept, and find myself sitting in a comfortable chair in what used to be Eamon's office, with Alistair on one side and Ponka at my feet.

Teagan apologises again, explaining that the offending guards - all four of them - have been sent to Anora to answer for their actions, because torture has been outlawed since what I found in the basement of the Denerim estate at the end of the Blight.

Just my bad luck, and a guard who was trying to make a name for himself.

And now it comes to the point.

"So who are you, exactly? And why were you in Antiva using my name?" he asks, and I take a deep breath.

"Okay. I'll try to put this as simply as possible, because this is really complicated, and I barely understand all of it, myself. First, I want to say, I'm just a woman. I don't have any special secret powers or anything, no direct line to the Maker, no dragon in disguise, nothing like that. However... I don't come from Thedas. I'm from a place called Earth."

Teagan is staring at me like I'm nuts, and glances at Alistair, but Alistair knows me, and isn't surprised by any of this. It seems to give Teagan reassurance.

"The people of my world have ways of travelling to other places, but we can't do it physically. I've likened it to dreams, before. They are waking dreams, experienced through a pane of glass. In order to go to another world, we have to be born there, devoting a piece of ourselves to that person, to make them live and breathe, so we can be present in the other world. However... that system has its drawbacks. We can see, hear, speak, and act, but we cannot feel, taste, or touch. Not truly.

"So I chose to come to Thedas, to be born here, because I was told that this world faced something cataclysmic, and I wanted to help. I was born as Lily Mahariel, a Dalish. She looked like me because she is - or was - me. She had my eyes, my face, my voice, my heart, and a piece of my soul. She acted with my ethics and my beliefs. I was here, through her."

"So... you are saying that Mahariel was... an abomination?" he asks slowly, and I shake my head.

"Everyone always asks that. No. An abomination is a person whose body and soul becomes corrupted and possessed by a demon. Mahariel was my body here. The only soul ever within her was mine. Her consciousness was sometimes separate from mine, because I had to try to live in two places at once, so I couldn't always be exactly... present. There are things that happened here that I don't remember, but it's the small things, like conversations that occurred as we travelled from here to there, or things I said or did in the wee hours of the morning. It's weird to hear about those things, because it's always something I would have said or done, but it's not a memory I have. Those small things died with her."

I take another deep breath. He seems to be following me so far, so I just keep going.

"Normally, this is where the story would end. For my people, when your second self dies, you're done in that world. You reclaim the part of yourself that was used to breathe life into your second self, and then perhaps you consider going to another world. For me... it didn't work like that this time. Somehow, instead of me reclaiming the piece that was lost, the piece that was lost reclaimed _me_, and pulled me _here_, which isn't supposed to happen. At all. I'm not sure how; there was a storm, and I accidentally drowned in the ocean. It pulled me to Zevran, who brought me to land, and then things happened and I ended up at the Warden compound in Antiva. He and I broke up last year, and... other things happened. Now..."

I look at Alistair, and he blushes, grinning widely, making me blush in answer, and Teagan laughs.

"I see," he says, shaking his head. "A very strange tale. I would say unbelievable, but I cannot deny that you sit in front of me, and if I close my eyes, I truly could not tell the difference. Yet, none of this explains what you were doing in Antiva under my name."

"Oh, uh... Well... When Zevran found me, he was on a Fereldan cargo ship bound for Antiva. We realised we'd have to say I was _someone_, when we got off the boat. The only place I knew was Ferelden, so I had to claim it as my homeland. I couldn't think of anyone from here that I trusted more than you, so... I made up a name and said I came from Redcliffe. 'Lady Cassia' was meant to be an alias that got me on the ground and nothing more, but I was noticed on the dock by a noble named Lothrein, who took an interest in me, and then turned out to be a Crow. That's how I ended up a 'casualty' of his ill-fated party. I was reported dead because someone slipped me enough poison to kill an ox, and whomever that was apparently lived to tell the tale. The only reason I'm still standing is that I had an item that protected me from the brunt of the poison's effects."

He is quiet for a long time, just looking between the two of us, then he looks down at Ponka, asleep and snoring on my foot. "And the mabari?"

"He knew me immediately," I say, shrugging with one shoulder. "He's the one who alerted Zevran to my presence in the water. Really, it's his loyalty, from the very start, that's convinced a lot of people. You can't fake it with a bonded mabari. He knows his mistress," I say fondly, looking down at him.

"This is incredible. I don't understand how it could be possible," he says, and I laugh.

"Yeah, you and me both. Nearest thing I can guess: the archdemon's death ripped a hole in the Fade next to my soul, and when it didn't return back to me like it was supposed to, I fell through the hole, because I drowned, so technically I was dead for a minute when my soul was trying to rejoin." I shrug again. "After what, going on two years here, it seems like the most likely explanation, as odd as it sounds."

"So what are you doing now?" he asks. "Are you still with the Wardens?"

I shake my head. "No. It was my Mahariel body that was a Warden, and a warrior. I can't do any of that. This body, my actual self, never touched anything here. I live at the Warden compound, with Alistair, but I'm a carpenter. I actually, uh... On the way here, while I was on the boat, I carved something for you. I'm just sorry that our introduction happened the way it did, but..." I can laugh at it now, because I'm safe, with Alistair and Ponka right next to me. Woe betide anyone who tries to put their hands on me now. "We seem to have a knack for meeting under the worst of circumstances."

Alistair sends Ponka to fetch his satchel, and we gift Teagan with the chess set. He is appropriately speechless, and after a bit of conversation regarding the set, Alistair agrees to teach him how to play. Still easily exhausted - I can't have a full blood supply yet, really - the security of Alistair's shield arm wrapped tightly around me, and the familiar scene of two men good-naturedly arguing philosophy over chess next to a roaring fire lull me to sleep on Alistair's shoulder.


	37. Knot

"Are you all right, my lady?" the girl doing my hair asks me. I can feel the tightness in my smile, and take a deep breath, looking at the bride in the mirror. I can't think of her as me. If I do that, I'll remember what I'm doing, and I've been trying so hard not to look at that. It's too big. Too scary.

She's pale - too pale. She looks like she might be sick at any moment. She's been sick with nerves for days, though she's been too proud to show it. Her eyes are painted with kohl in what is thought of as Antivan style, but which she associates with goths and Egyptians, either way, a reference that will never exist in this world. Unplaited hair falls in dark ripples to the centre of her back as the girl with the clever fingers unweaves all the previous night's careful work. Her lips look blackberry-stained and bee-stung, the product of some rouge pot that belonged to Lady Bella.

She accidentally stalled the process by a day, putting the seamstresses into a flap when she objected to the colourful and ultimately frightening Fereldan wedding fashion sense. She insisted that they use her own design, that she be involved in the process of the dressmaking, that she be the one to pick out the fabrics, ending up with something in shades of blue that would have done the old House of Worth proud.

She did these things to distract herself from words like 'husband', 'wife', and 'forever', and the tattoo that curves along her ribs and over her hip. The one that Alistair's hand passes over, but never traces.

She looks back at me, and her gaze, oh, her gaze is so accusing.

Stop it, Mahariel.

_You're already married._

I'm not.

_You are. The chain lives._

I warned him. He said to do it.

_He'd find a way to pull the stars from the sky and put them in your hands if you said you wanted it._

I can't reach for that. It's not safe.

_That love brought you back from the dead._

That love isn't proof against poison, nor daggers in the dark!

My internal voice is sharp, and the Mahariel-voice falls silent. Blessedly silent.

"My lady?" the girl asks again, hands coming to rest on my shoulders like little butterflies, and I shake myself, giving her a more genuine smile.

"Yes, just... nervous," I say, biting my lip, and she looks completely sympathetic.

"That's no surprise," she blurts, then colours, stammering. "Ah, oh no, I'm sorry my lady, terribly rude of me- I only meant, well, everyone is, on their wedding day, I should think."

I laugh softly, ducking my head. "No offence taken," I say, waving a hand. "I'm sure you're right." I mean to ask her something, but the question flies right out of my head at the knock on the door.

The woman in the mirror looks terrified.

I stop looking at her.

The maid opens the door, and I look up into the smiling face of Bella, who has been overseeing our preparations with barely-repressed glee. She and Teagan have made this event much bigger than we meant it to be, but they've also spared no expense, and been very, very kind to us.

_I should hope so, after the reception we received._

That's almost beside the point, by now. These people just get up in the morning and carry on, after sickening violence, like nothing happened. "Oh, the healer's seen to it, and you're not in pain anymore, and here's a soft bed and so now everything is fine again, right? No hard feelings. Let's have lunch!" It's insane... and yet it also makes perfect sense, because they try so desperately to wring every moment for all its worth.

_I was raised to take my pleasures where they could be found, for they do not come very often._

Shh. No.

They've also seen tragedy and loss on a scale I will never understand.

Gods willing.

I was right: Teagan is not the sort of man to employ torturers. The room in question had originally been used as an alchemy lab by the healers. Its perversion to a torture chamber made Teagan so angry, he's had it sealed off as profaned, and then ordered all the prisoners held at that guard captain's command released from the dungeon. From what I understand, there was hell to pay amongst the guards. They certainly stand up straighter now.

Bella recognised me the moment she laid eyes on me, starting so violently, she stumbled. She ran over and hugged me before anyone could say a word. "I _knew_ you weren't dead!" she exclaimed, and then, "Wait, what happened to your tattoo?" She, like Leliana, never doubted, taking me completely by surprise. We spent a long afternoon and well into the evening talking. I never wrote anything down, but I took a shine to her when I met her, and all the things that flitted through my head about how I'd treat her if I could spend a few minutes... actually happened.

And all the awesome ale I've been drinking - the only stuff I've found that actually tastes good to me - has been from her brewery, that she started with the sovereigns I gave her... which is how she came to be married to Bann Teagan, and then Arlessa next to him when he got promoted because Eamon was promoted to Arl in Denerim. She credits me with enabling her to have the life she's been so blessed with, proudly plopping an adorable, toothless little smiler into my arms.

Seria is about six months old, and only has three modes: awake, which is cheerful, inquisitive, and very active; asleep, which is peaceful and exactly on schedule; and screaming fit to shatter crystal. However, the screaming almost always heralds something amiss that is easily fixed in moments, returning her to smiles and sunshine, or, in the case of hunger, completely comatose for at least two hours. When it comes my turn, may I be so lucky.

The baby in question is currently balanced easily on her mama's hip, fist full of hair and mouth full of fist, gazing around with wide, blue eyes at everything in the room. She lets go of her fist in favour of wiggling excitedly when she sees me, grinning widely and breaking my tension a bit. Oh, the sweet innocence.

"It's time," Bella says, and I take a deep breath, standing up and looking down at myself. It's completely unnecessary - every detail has been seen to. Only two things would I not compromise on: one, under no circumstances would I take off my necklace, and two, my hair will not be messed with. I've seen the complicated curlicue bun things that women do to their hair with crazy braids and weird pomades and tons of pins. No thank you. I relented and let one of the maids braid it, but only on the condition that it'd be let down again. I go to run my fingers through it nervously, and Bella bats my hands away.

"Stop that. You look amazing," she says, still smiling. "Alistair is sure to lose his wits completely when he sees you." I blush, and the maid behind me titters, making Seria squeal and wave her drooly fist around.

She fell asleep on my shoulder a couple of nights ago as I paced back and forth with her in the hallway while Bella got the last fitting on her dress. I was humming some old Native lullaby that my gran used to sing to me when I was little, marvelling at how Seria has such big energy when she's awake that she seems so much tinier by comparison when she's asleep. I heard a footstep down the hall, and when I opened my eyes and looked up, Alistair was standing there staring at me, the most curious expression on his face, a mixture of longing, desire, and awe.

Visions of the future, perhaps.

I'm calm when we leave the room, but the long hallways and endless series of rooms wear it away, leaving me with apprehension that gnaws at my stomach and makes my hands tremble. I clutch them together in front of me so that hopefully no one notices. I suddenly understand the use of a bouquet, and wish Fereldans did that sort of thing.

By custom, the man waits for the woman at the Chantry, standing at the doors, a symbolic defender, however, she has to come to him, because she too must be willing to meet him in all things. We walk to our destination, because we are not without the wherewithal to pursue what we desire. We're supposed to be as fancy as possible, to demonstrate that we don't need each other's wealth to live our lives, because a marriage is meant to be a meeting of equals. There are no overtones of chattel, not in Andrastian weddings. No veil, no one 'giving away' the bride, no questions or care given to the thought of virginity, except where it might prove problematic for the inexperienced.

All these thoughts are really just serving to distract me from the fact that I'm walking across the causeway that connects the castle to the opposite cliff like I know what I'm doing. Ponka trots along happily beside me, the rest of the party gone on ahead.

Everyone gathers at the chantry before the bride.

The day is crisp enough to snap off my nose at this height, with the way the wind whips off Lake Calenhad through the gap between the cliffs. Fortunately, the sky is a robin's egg blue, promising a rainless afternoon. It feels like late December, and I pull my cloak around me more closely, guarding my face until I'm sheltered by the rise of stone on either side of me as bridge gives way to paved road.

Merchants must have an easier time coming in and out now, though it still twists and turns as it passes the windmill on its way down to the lake.

I pause on the bridge beside the falls, looking out over the town. How many times did I stand in just this place, as Mahariel? The view is very similar, though the houses and connecting docks are much less shabby, and there are more of them now.

I swallow hard, having to brace myself when I see the crowd filling the square. Everyone in town turned out to see us, and they've all been watching for me, of course; a cheer goes up when I stand at the top of the hill. There are so many people, I can't see Alistair from here. Bowing my head, I watch my step as I descend the hill, but if I'm supposed to be strong, I can't go through the crowd like that. I have to face them.

I take a deep breath before I look up, holding my head high and using the trick I learned when performing as a dancer, lifetimes ago. I only look at people's noses. They think you're making eye contact, when, in fact, you're avoiding it. It helps.

I thread my way through the people moving aside, until I stand at the centre of an aisle that leads straight up to the chantry steps, where Alistair waits. He's wearing a suit in the Fereldan style - laces up the front of the doublet, slashed sleeves, vertically striped pants, tall boots - but it's all black, white, and Warden blue, everything edged in contrasting silver. I can't help but stop short, staring at him the way he's staring at me.

Oh gods, he cleans up well. The way the doublet's built, his shoulders look even broader, the stripes on his pants making him look even taller, the deep blue, heavy cloak falling from his shoulders framing him perfectly.

My heart, oh, my heart. Treacherous beast. The sight of him makes me weak in the knees. I could just grab him and run, right now, pin him up against a wall and lick his throat. _Aphrodite preserve me._

He's got to see that spark in my eye, because I see it ignite in his, stealing my breath.

Suddenly the presence of so many bodies around me is oppressive, and I have to restrain myself from dashing forward to hide behind him, wanting nothing more in this moment than to be _away_. I feel like I'm going to be sick. I should have eaten something.

Instead of bolting, of course, I simply walk forward, despite how wooden my legs feel at the moment, mounting the stairs to the chantry and taking his hand. Oh, the pride in his eyes. How they shine with all that he feels. "Maker's breath, Lily, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

I can't help blushing. "You look pretty amazing, yourself," I murmur.

I take his arm as we turn, and we open the double doors together, one each. I have to actually lean on his arm rather more than I would like, and he looks down at me, covering my hand with his own as we slowly make our way down the aisle toward the altar. The reassuring solidity of him at my side makes the terrified bird in my chest calm and stop scratching me, giving me room to breathe. The crowd files in behind us, taking seats. The point is to go slowly enough that everyone's seated by the time we reach the Revered Mother.

"Are you okay?" he murmurs, worried, and I nod.

"Feel sick. Too many people; forgot to eat," I whisper back, trying not to move my lips too much.

He shakes his head, chuckling as we take another step, hand tightening around mine. "Ah-hah, _now_ I've got you. No marriage, no lunch. Muahahaha, my evil plan has worked," he says, and I giggle. "Honestly, I don't know how you do that to yourself. Don't you feel hungry?"

I nod. "I do, but I just ignore it. Lots on my mind. Didn't have much time, either."

"That's totally mad," he says, amused, and shakes his head again. "No wonder you feel ill. Remind me to punish you for it later."

"Oh, I'm to be punished, now?" I ask archly, mock-offended.

"Yes..." he says slowly, as though weighing his options. "With cake."

I blink up at him in confusion, but he just grins, and then I hear the doors close as we reach Mother Hannah. She raises her hand briefly, fingers spread in blessing, smiling brilliantly at us.

"We come here today, in the sight of the Maker, to witness the sworn vows of these two people to join their households together by the bonds of marriage," she says, and my stomach clenches.

She recites some things from the Chant of Light, things on fidelity and strength, on communication and solidarity, and some flowery poetry from the romance of Andraste and the Maker that reminds me of Psalms from the Bible and lines from Rumi and Gibran.

It feels like it takes an hour, but if I'm being honest, it's certainly less than ten minutes. Then come the ritual questions.

"Who are you that comes here this day, seeking blessing?" she asks me, and I take a deep breath.

"Lily Maxwell."

_Arainai._

Shut up.

"Alistair Theirin," Alistair says, and I realise I missed the part where she asked him.

Steady now. Pay attention.

"A wife must respect, cherish, protect, and provide for her husband and her home. She must remain steadfast in times of strife and be wise in times of bounty, carry her portion of all the hurts and sorrows, celebrate with him all the loves and joys that life may bring, and share all things meaningful to her with her husband. Lily, are you capable and willing to meet these needs?"

"I am," I respond, about to breathe a sigh of relief, but then she asks me something else.

"Then before the Maker and all those assembled here, do you agree to bind yourself to Alistair as his wife, forsaking all others?"

I blink.

Forsaking all others.

_Forsaking all others._

Oh gods.

_Zevran..._

I hesitate, I know I do. Surely the entire universe hears me hesitate, for just that split second. My eyes are wide as saucers as my heart hammers in my chest, and I look up at Alistair, steady as a rock at my side; my fingers curl on his arm, gripping tightly. The nausea of fear rolls over me in a wave, and I suck my stomach in so I don't sway. He sees it, even if no one else does, squeezing my hand gently again.

_You can't do this. You can't-_

My shield.

"I do," I respond, not meaning to whisper, then clear my throat. "I do," I repeat, loudly enough to be heard by someone other than him and Mother Hannah this time.

Gods help me.

Mother Hannah seems to be fairly perceptive herself, and she gives me a reassuring smile, kind and understanding eyes holding no judgement.

_That's because she has no idea._

Shut up.

She pulls a small length of soft white fabric out of her sleeve. Holding out her hands, she encourages me to let go of Alistair long enough for her to quickly loop it over my wrist in an overhand knot, before she turns to look at him.

"A husband must respect, cherish, protect, and provide for his wife and his home. He must remain steadfast in times of strife and be wise in times of bounty, carry his portion of all the hurts and sorrows, celebrate with her all the loves and joys that life may bring, and share all things meaningful to him with his wife. Alistair, are you capable and willing to meet these needs?"

"I am," he replies confidently.

_Oh gods_

"Then before the Maker and all those assembled here, do you agree to bind yourself to Lily as her husband, forsaking all others?"

He nods once, never wavering. Oh, how possessive his eyes as he looks at me. "I do."

_My shield._

Another length of cloth around Alistair's wrist, the same knot, and then she crosses and knots the trailing ends of his with mine, literally tying us together. I stare at the complicated knot, swallowing hard, then look up at him. The corner of his eyebrow goes up, just the edge of a smirk, and I suddenly have to repress the urge to giggle, making him grin, and me bite my lip. I really am trying to pay attention to the blessing that the priestess is giving.

"...and all your days be filled with peace and harmony," she says.

I feel clammy, a little dizzy, and reach up to grab Alistair's arm again. Now the look in his eye is different, a question of whether I'm going to make it through this. I take a deep breath, pressing my free hand to my stomach, trying to convince it that it should keep its minimal contents right where they are. Mother Hannah's eyes widen, and she quickly raises her hand in the more formal spread-fingered benediction of the Andrastian church.

"By the light of the Maker and his blessed bride Andraste, I consecrate this union. Henceforth, you shall be known as husband and wife. You may now seal your bond. May it last in peace and prosperity for as long as you both shall live."

Alistair leans down, using the excuse of the kiss to put his arm around my waist, steadying me, and brushes my lips softly with his own. The people are here for a little more than that, so I go up on my toes and press more firmly, swaying against him as my eyes slide closed. Everyone in the room is on their feet and cheering as we slowly separate, though he doesn't let go of me. The pride, the joy on his face as he looks at me, oh gods, he's never been happier in all his life. All because of me.

I am humbled, blushing, and look down at the fabric around our wrists. The people in the pews begin filing out slowly, chatting animatedly, as we're meant to be the last ones out of the church. All of them turning their backs to us makes me feel a lot better than us having our backs to all of them, and a little bit of the tension in my stomach eases. Just a little.

And then I look down at our hands again, his right, my left, tied together with lengths of white fabric.

Married.

Oh gods.

_Just breathe._

Oh, tiger, look at your eyes.

"Alistair," I whisper, reaching up to trace the line of his cheekbone, and he smiles at me, catching my hand and making my heart stop.

"Yes, my wife?" he asks, pressing a kiss to the ball of my thumb. Oh, the mischief and promise there. I realise abruptly that he hasn't looked at me quite like that in a while, like he might be inclined to chase me, and it startles a wide smile out of me. The way he says those words with relish, I bet he's been waiting to taste them for a long time.

"I love you," I confess, because it's true. I don't remember what I was going to say before he did that. Doesn't matter.

My stomach rolls again, and I close my eyes, swaying forward to press my forehead to his shoulder. "Oh gods, I don't want to be sick," I whimper.

"Oh, dear." Mother Hannah grabs my free hand, tugging me toward her as she turns. "Come with me," she says, brooking no argument, and I'm not inclined to, dashing after her, Alistair right behind me. Drawing us behind a bookcase, she hands me a basin and I clutch it to my chest as she pulls my hair back just in time.

"Oh gods-" I say, and then, a moment later, when I have more breath, "Gross-" and then, when the heaves have let me go, "I'm sorry. I should have eaten." Someone hands me a wet cloth, and I wipe my face. "Wow, completely embarrassing." Glancing up at Alistair, I cover my mouth with the cloth, noticing my hand is trembling slightly. "I'm so sorry."

Mother Hannah chuckles softly. "Many people have anxious stomachs on such an important day. There's no shame in it, child." She hands me a small cup, trading me for the cloth and basin, and I drink the bitter, peppery contents, trying not to gag on them. My stomach settles a little, but not much. At least I don't think there will be a repeat performance at the moment.

Alistair wraps me in his arms, solid safety and warmth, and I hum softly, sagging against him and burying my face in his chest. "It can't be helped, love. Things like that happen when they will, whatever we've got to say about it. Are you feeling better?"

I nod, taking a steadying breath. "Yeah... just... I should eat some bread or something, I think. Just... nerves plus an empty stomach, probably not a good plan, right?" I laugh, a little shaky, but I actually am feeling better, now that we're done with the scary part.

_The Lie._

No. The truth.

_The chain lives._

Well so does this, dammit! Shut _up!_

"Apparently not," Alistair agrees, laughing with me, though I can tell he's still worried.

I look up at him, running a finger over his eyebrow, disliking the furrow in it. "I'm all right, I promise. If it'll make you feel better, I'll check in with Teagan's healer when we get back, okay? But I'm better now, so I don't think I'm actually sick. If I were, barfing would make me feel worse."

He studies my face for a moment, possibly trying to determine whether I'm attempting to snow him, then just smiles. "All right then, let's go."

Oh gods.

Taking a deep breath, I paste a pretty smile on my face and follow him out.

I hate crowds. But worst of all, in this one, everyone actually _is_ looking at me.

Noses.

Together, we walk out of the chantry, into the mass of people, getting passed from hand to hand as everyone wishes us well. I'm smiling so much, I feel like my face is going to crack. Fortunately for me, I've got a big hound on one side and a big warrior on the other, to cushion me against the press. A lot of people remark on my name, how funny it is that Alistair comes back with a different Lily, and marries her in the chantry.

Haha, yeah, what a weird coincidence.

A few people who directly interacted with Mahariel, like Lloyd, watch me carefully, giving me strange looks, and I begin to feel paranoid that they know, that they've guessed. The last thing we need is a mob with pitchforks and torches.

Despite the chill, everyone stays in the square, sheltered from the bitter wind off the lake by the houses that surround it and warmed by a bonfire in the centre. Several serving girls move about the crowd, some with platters of feast cakes, some with mugs of ale, and one with a basket on her head, which people toss coins into. The sweet, sticky cakes do little for my nausea, but I try to keep my cool.

A small band set themselves up by the chanter's board and begin to play a lively tune; a bunch of people start dancing, forming a chain, and weave their way through the crowd, gathering more people as they go. It's a song apparently everyone knows, as many voices rise at the same time, a pleasant chorus surrounding us. After a few moments, I realise that those who are in the line have already greeted us, and those who aren't, haven't; it snakes its way around the square as Alistair and I come to the end of the well-wishers.

"Ready?" Alistair asks, looking down at me with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

Oh no. "For what?"

The head of the line comes toward us, making a beeline for me, and Alistair grins wickedly. "Hold out your hand," he says, nodding toward the woman coming toward me, and my eyes widen. She catches my hand just as Alistair begins to move, tugging me after him, and we charge along at the head of the line until we catch up with the end of it, Alistair grabbing the last man's hand. Everyone sings along, a song of celebration and laughter, half the town off-key and the rest forgetting the words or getting them wrong half the time, as we turn around the bonfire and through the square.

I can't even believe I'm here. Oh, but look at him, how he laughs as we all kick our way through the dance that carries us along quickstep. In that moment, as I watch him completely unguarded and filled up with elation, something small and fragile in my heart gives way, flooding me with peace.

The song ends and there is another cheer. "This is where we get to escape, love," he says, telling me he knows my state of mind better than I thought, and I breathe a sigh of relief. As everyone turns to us expectantly, surprising me into being uncomfortable for that split second, Alistair wraps his arm around my waist and tugs me into him, kissing me soundly and making me swoon. Everyone claps and whistles, laughing and calling encouragement. I feel my face heat as he turns me loose, so smug.

The girl with the basket on her head stops next to us to hand it to Alistair; he moves us toward the hill leading back up to the castle, thankfully, as everyone in the square pairs off, dancing to a new song struck up by the band.

"We don't have to stay for the party?" I ask, as the sounds of revelry become muted by the rushing of the falls.

"No, they'll be at it for hours. The music and dancing are to drown out whatever sounds might emerge from the new couple's home. Not that we have to worry about that, but some people find it helpful, I imagine. We ate and drank with them, met everyone, danced, and took the basket, so they expect us to... disappear... until the feast tonight."

I twine my fingers between his as we turn at the windmill, just a step behind him, all the way up the side of the cliff. "Hang on, I need to catch my breath," I say as we reach the top of the steep path, and stop to lean against the wall of the bridge tower.

"All right?" he asks, a warmth near my back as I rest my forehead against the cool stone, my momentary hot-flash beginning to pass. I nod as his hand comes to rest on my shoulder; swaying against him, I close my eyes and hum softly.

"You're warm," I murmur, wrapping my free arm around his waist and turning to bury my face in his chest.

His hand comes up under my chin not an instant later, tipping my face up as he crowds me, pressing me against the wall and kissing me ardently. Twining the fingers of our bound hands, he presses mine to the wall above my head as his other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me close, and turning my knees to jelly.

A few moments later, someone wolf-whistles rather loudly, and I gasp as Alistair grins, only pulling back from me slowly. Of course, there is still a guard on the tower. He waves and calls down, "Congratulations!" to us. I blush hotly, but Alistair doesn't look remorseful in the slightest, not letting go of my hand as he turns, pulling me after him through the gate. He shares his cloak with me as we cross the bridge, and I am more and more keenly aware of him, the closer we get to our destination.

More than once, as we make our way through those long, complicated hallways, he takes me by surprise, pushing me up against the nearest wall, desperately kissing me senseless like he can't breathe, can't possibly take another step if he doesn't. The last time, I don't even know where we are anymore, just somewhere in the castle, completely lost. He picks me up by the simple expedient of wrapping his free arm around my waist and crushing me to his chest, at last impatient with how I stumble and swoon against him every time he turns all that fiery intensity on me.

I hear a door close, but I'm not paying any heed to it as his mouth devours the line of my jaw, my head tipping back, eyes closed. The feel of his body against mine is intoxicating, how his stomach flexes as he moves, the hard length of his thigh and the way he deliberately presses our hips together, making me gasp and shudder in his arms.

"Alistair," I whisper, my hands full of his hair and the rippling planes of his stomach as his kisses travel lower. He growls softly, reacting instantly, his breath ghosting across the tops of my breasts making me shiver. It isn't until he's busily unlacing the back of my bodice, hot mouth ravenously exploring every inch of slowly more accessible skin along the neckline, that I realise I'm laying down, my head pressing back into the pillows when I arch.

He has to pause when my bodice is undone, because he can't get the dress off me with the way our hands are still bound together. I finally open my eyes to see him rising above me on his knees, eyes dark as midnight and hot enough to set the bedclothes afire. Oh, oh and he wants _me_.

I am reminded quite forcefully and clearly of that moment in front of the chantry, where I was assailed with hunger to simply throw him against a wall and have my way with him, and it spurs me. Curling forward, I swiftly meet him, turning my face up to capture his mouth again as my fingers go to the laces of his doublet, untying it as quickly as my trembling will allow. I whimper when I finally reach skin, my hands wandering up his stomach and over his chest.

He wraps his arms around me as I pounce, hands sliding up my back and pushing the dress off my shoulders, and the heat of his hands against my bare skin makes me moan, swaying against him. Impatiently, I pull my arms out of the sleeves as the dress tangles my elbows, and Alistair shrugs out of the doublet tossing it aside. I pull the tunic over his head, throwing it someplace, not even looking, because his collar bone is _right there_; I've been wanting to lick it for what seems like hours now, and I seize my opportunity to do just that, his head tipping back as I fasten my lips to the hollow of his throat.

I can feel the vibration of his voice as he gasps, one hand flexing in my hair; the other sliding down over my hip pushes the dress off to puddle at my knees. My hands have not been idle, picking at the laces to his breeches and skimming along the top edge of his pants as they fall, caressing the silken skin at the hollows of his hips. "Lily..." He whispers my name like a prayer, and a shiver goes up my spine, raising all my small hairs, and "My wife..." as I kiss down his chest, and "Maker..." as I sink down in front of him, tugging the cloth out of the way so I can wrap my lips around his thick crown.

Oh, the soft cries he makes when I do this - still sounding surprised, every time - shaking hands stroking through my hair so gently, as though I might shatter if he touches me too firmly. After a short time, he apparently can't stand it anymore, pulling me up to kiss me passionately, practically thrumming with desire as his length presses tightly against my belly. I moan as he lays me back, thinking I know what's in store, but his hot hands and shaking breath all over my skin, exploring me like he's never seen me before, makes everything new again.

Maybe he hasn't. Not like this. Not as his wife.

His fingers twine with mine, our bound hands gripping tightly as his breath coasts across my lower belly, and I lift my hips in desire, in invitation, a whimper torn from me by the proximity of his mouth to the aching place where I need him to be. His free hand slides under me, pulling my panties down from the back, and the dress off my thighs with them. His hand, his mouth, nibbling up the inside of my thigh, kissing the most sensitive part of me, has me writhing and whispering senselessly, things like, "Oh gods," and, "Please," and, "Don't stop."

He does, though. Oh, he does, and I let out a sobbing, frustrated moan of protest as he pulls his mouth away.

"Awww..." he murmurs in amused mock-sympathy. The bed shifts as he moves about, and I catch my breath, blinking as I open my eyes. He's kneeling between my thighs, completely naked, somehow seemingly bigger than I've ever known him to be, or maybe it's just that I don't tend to see it by daylight. Oh, and I know what he wants, too. "Turn over," he murmurs, leaning over me again, and I turn into the circle of our arms, closing my eyes and raising my hips for him as he curls over my back.

Oh gods, it wasn't my imagination. He's just turned on enough to be slightly larger than usual, and he's enormous. His shield hand cradles my lower belly as I moan and shake beneath him, his breathing stuttering and shallow in my ear as he slowly pulls me backward against him. "S- So- Oh gods- So big-" I whisper desperately, and he growls softly. He is a hot and heavy weight within me as he pauses, my hips nestled securely against his. Most people are in it for the orgasm, and of course I love that transcendent crash, but it is the pause before everything happens, when I am so full and he is curled around me, the shining light and ecstasy of being completely surrounded by love, this is the moment that is my favourite, and I savour it.

He holds me tightly as he leans back, sitting up, and I cry out as gravity drops me further onto him, pushing me to my absolute limit, just this side of the line between pleasure and pain.

"Alistair..." I breathe, head tipping back against his shoulder as he settles me more perfectly in his lap.

"Lily," comes the dark whisper in my ear, making me shudder. "My sweet- beautiful- amazing- _wife_..." he says, punctuating each word with a slow roll beneath me, tearing ever more strident cries from me.

Legs flexing against his, my head hangs as I moan for him, free hand reaching behind me to clutch at his hip, keeping myself as close as possible. Just as the fires begin to rise, thighs quivering, my cries becoming ragged, he stops.

Maddeningly, infuriatingly, he _stops_; I wail with shameless protest, shaking, and he hums softly, soothingly, gathering me back up and pulling me against his chest, beginning to move again. I sigh with relief, moving with him, and that spiral of fire starts once more, stealing my breath, making me cry out, and then he stops again.

His breath is hot and fast against my neck, and I can feel him struggling to master himself as he clutches me tightly, refusing to let me move. "Alistair, Alistair, oh gods, please, please," I whisper, begging desperately, fingers scratching against his hip.

"I want to hear you," he says, his hand sliding up toward my breast. "Just once, Lily, just once. Say it," he whispers, lips brushing that sensitive spot behind my ear, "Say it," he repeats, and rolls beneath me again, groaning. "Oh Maker, Lily... please," he pleads. I can feel him throbbing heavily, every pulse answered by my own body as I tighten around him.

"Alistair," I breathe. "I love you..."

"Say it!" he begs, then sets his teeth to the back of my neck, making me gasp and buck downward against him. I cry out loudly, helplessly, so close to the shattering edge.

Oh.

"My... husband," I say, the words dragged from my mouth on a breathless whisper.

He groans, deep and guttural, hips snapping upward against mine hard and fast, holding me to him so tightly that I cannot move. I wail brokenly, pushed to mad, fiery heights as he claims me utterly, the sound of his desperate moaning and the thick drag of him across my threshold steal my ability to exhale. I quiver, hiccuping in the moment before the fires rise, and then they roar over me, consuming completely, so hot the room should be blazing, and I think I may have actually screamed.

I am just lucid enough to register his never-louder cries as he follows me over the edge, the feel of his own release pulling echoes of mine. I whimper in the aftershocks, breathless and keening as our rhythm slows, though he doesn't stop now, no, not anymore. He keeps going so long that I have another, and then a third, bucking and wailing like a wild thing, unable to stop myself. He groans with wonder and desire each time, and I sob as he finally slows to a halt, boneless and shuddering in his arms.

He holds me close as he rolls to the side, laying us down, and for a time, I just drift in the haze of afterglow, catching my breath and basking in the warmth of his embrace. As I return to myself, the fabric around my wrist reasserts itself as a fact and I look down at it. "Wait... How are we still wearing this when we took off everything else?" I ask, a little mush-mouthed, raising my hand to tug on it.

"Mmh..." he mumbles, then chuckles. "Took it off, then put it back on," he says simply, and I laugh. "What?"

"I didn't even notice. Why?"

"Supposed to wear it until after the feast."

Oh.

I hum softly, content and drifting.

"Are you happy, Lily? With me?" he asks, his voice very small and vulnerable, and my eyes pop open. Where the hell did that come from?

"What? Yes! Why would you ask me that?" I pull his hand up and kiss his palm, nuzzling my cheek into it.

"In the chantry... You looked terrified," he says, and my stomach clenches.

Tell the truth.

"I was," I admit, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "I was feeling sick, standing in front of a lot of people, feeling a lot of pressure and answering public questions about something between you and me that's very private. It was scary. I was afraid I was going to barf every second." Oh, wait... "You didn't think it was about you, did you?" I can tell by his stillness that I've hit upon it, and shake my head, cuddling backward against him. "No. You're the only reason I was still standing, by the end, the only reason I was ever there at all. It's just... a public acknowledgement of what's already true, right?"

His arm tightens around me as he buries his face in my hair. "I was afraid... with how sudden it all was..." he murmurs, and I shake my head, a small laugh startled out of me.

"No... I had a feeling this was coming before we left Antiva."

"You were thinking about it, too," he accuses in a playful tone, and this time I do giggle.

Hours later, we've snacked and slept, bathed and gathered our embarrassingly far-flung clothing, helping each other back into it. I grumble as he does up my laces, and he places a soft kiss at the nape of my neck. "What's the matter, love?"

"If I had my way, we wouldn't bother getting dressed until sometime tomorrow. Maybe." He laughs, kissing me again, and we make our way down to the castle's dining hall. Halfway there, he pushes me into an alcove, kissing me again, hands smoothing down over my hips, grabbing them firmly as he pulls me against him.

"Maker, you make it hard to think," he says, more than a little breathless, and I bite my lip, looking up at him. His grin turns a little wicked. "Come on, you're making us late," he says, stepping back, and I gasp.

"Me!" I splutter. "_You!_" I accuse, pointing at him, and he just laughs, smug and completely unapologetic.

"Hey, hey! Gently!" he laughs, fending off my half-hearted attempts to grab his arm and bite it. He dances away from me, but he can't get more than three feet because of the cloth, and I grin wickedly as it pulls tight.

"Ah-hah! Can't get away from me now!" I cackle, darting after him.

"Ack!" He flails, stumbling backward and running into a doorjamb, head thrown back in helpless laughter. I love how unguarded he is in the moment as he completely cracks up, a laugh I haven't got out of him since before we left Antiva... a lifetime ago, already.

I pounce on him, grabbing his arm with both hands and pretend to chomp on his bicep. "Rawr!" He laughs again, wrapping an arm around my waist, and I giggle, swaying against him. This is when I become aware that there's someone standing nearby, and I look up swiftly to find Teagan standing- Oh no.

In the main hall.

Where _everyone_ is standing.

Watching us acting like children.

There are a ton of people here.

Belatedly, it occurs to me that Alistair _is_ the bastard prince...

_Oh shit._

I leap back with a gasp, feeling myself heat up to crimson with being caught in that moment. I squeak, clapping my hands over my mouth, and Alistair straightens, though none of the humour leaves him, as the entire room bursts into laughter.

"Ah, Alistair, she suits you," Teagan says, and I grin behind my hands, still beet red. I can feel my eyes crinkle, and turn to hide my face in Alistair's sleeve as he wraps an arm around me.

"My thoughts exactly," Alistair says, sounding supremely satisfied, and there is more laughter.

Looking around as people go back to talking and aren't staring at me anymore, I notice that most of the people in the room are nobles, merchants, or people who were here during the Blight. I do my level best to be polite and unassuming, completely human, and most of all nothing like brusque Mahariel. I feel very, very exposed, and I don't like it. I end up clinging very close to Alistair, hardly needing the cloth to limit my range, and let him do most of the talking.

At the banquet, we're seated with Bella and Teagan at the head table. Bella is playing with Seria, who is blowing delighted raspberries every time Bella makes a face at her, making me laugh. I'm enjoying myself immensely until the servants come out with all their trays of food, and I look down at my plate... and all the cutlery arrayed next to it.

People come by and offer plates or bowls to take from, and I look around at all the smiling faces, at the honesty in this room, despite whatever backbiting and politics might be going on. What happened in Antiva was par for the course. Here, it would be a horrifying tragedy that people would still be talking about in hushed tones a year later.

I eat without fear.

The second time I sit at a noble's party, the good time I have won't be paid for in blood.

Halfway through the meal, Teagan rises and calls for a toast.

"Alistair, it seems like only yesterday, we were running through the castle, looking for secret passages and playing at being adults... Oh wait..." Teagan says, stroking his chin and furrowing his brow. "That _was_ yesterday," he says, and the room busts up. He grins as Alistair laughs, shaking his head. "No, no. I joke. Really, it's an odd thing to grow up next to your own nephew, and I've always felt more of a cousin or a brother to you than anything else. I never expected I'd get to say I met your _wife_, but to be here to actually see it happen is wonderful. I can't express how honoured I am that you chose here, of all places, to take your vows."

Everyone claps, but he's not done yet, and turns his eyes on me next.

"Lily, you truly are a remarkable woman. I've never met anyone like you, and I dare say I never will again. No one else could ever match him like you do, with your wit, your charm, and your grace, and it is my honour, dear lady, to welcome you to the family. May all your days be filled with laughter, and your nights with... sleeping," he says, people whistling innuendo into the pause and making me blush. "No, I'm serious," he protests, though he grins at the laughter. "Once you have one of those-" he nods at Seria and Bella, and they both smile up at him, "-Sleep is a precious thing. Enjoy it!"

There is more laughter as everyone raises their glasses to us. "To Alistair and Lily," Bella says. "May your life together be full of laughter and joy!"

"Alistair and Lily!" everyone says in chorus, and drinks. I turn red again and duck my head.

The feast winds down a little while later, as people finish their meals and the servants begin picking up plates. The scorching heat of Alistair's palm slides its way up my thigh under the table, and I lean against him, muzzy with ale and drowsy with food.

"Your lady is fading," Teagan observes, pausing in the middle of a tale about the time he and Alistair got in trouble together for stealing bacon out of the kitchen. They needed it to bribe a mabari. I'm not really sure why, anymore, but it was funny.

"Mmh, I _am_," I admit, mumbling a little.

"It's been a long day," Alistair agrees.

"Well, don't let us keep you," Bella says warmly. "There's always tomorrow."

_Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,  
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,  
To the last syllable of recorded time;  
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools  
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!  
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player  
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage  
And then is heard no more. It is a tale  
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury  
Signifying nothing_

Oh, Macbeth, what does it mean that you haunt me now? I don't like the feel of this, and my stomach turns with unease, even as I smile for her and reach out to tickle Seria's toes. Glancing around the room, I mark the faces and remind myself that even as Alistair comes from them, so does Eamon; just because I'm in a country that's more familiar doesn't make it okay for me to get complacent.

Hmh. Thanks, Macbeth.

_Gods, if you're listening, I don't want my life to be like Macbeth, please. It's perfectly complicated enough as it is, and I'm just grateful I'm still alive, so thanks and please keep helping me survive._

I realise I'm toying with my spiral and let go of it as Alistair rises, stretching and brushing some crumbs off his pants, then looks down at me. Oh, and I know that look; that's the look he had the first night, right before he vaulted the table. There's that bird again, trying to escape my chest, sending the blood rushing to my cheeks. I take his hand as I stand, and he pulls me close, kissing me heatedly, however briefly, pulling back again with a rakish tilt to his grin.

He doesn't even have to say anything. I'm already moving toward the door. Alistair calls goodbye to the laughing and whistling occupants of the dining hall over his shoulder. We're barely decently dressed by the time we get back to the room, too impatient to even make it to the bed. He's picked me up and so I've wrapped my legs around his waist, dress rucking up to my hips as we stumble through the door, kissing passionately. Since he's holding me up, I've got a hand free to finally get my fingers wrapped around him and he cries out, careening backward into the door again, shutting it with a thud under our combined weight.

He tries, oh, he does, but we can't seem to help ourselves. He's in me before he manages to turn us around, pinning me to the door. Something in his brain says we need to be in the bed, so he tries to walk, ending up with me against the wardrobe for a minute, and then he stumbles to a halt in the middle of the room, his knees giving out as he clutches me tightly. It's mere moments before both of us are crying out wantonly as we find release in each other, kissing endlessly, hands everywhere.

It takes us awhile to regain coordination, wash up, crawl into bed. By then, he's ready for round three, and I don't think I'm up for it until his hand ghosts up my thigh and over my hip, covering my belly as he breathes on the side of my neck, whispering in my ear. He is slow and sweet and delicate, driving me crazy before I fall keening over the edge again. After that, I just can't retain consciousness, curling into his warm arms - _cedar and rain and home, oh tiger..._ - and falling to sleep in an instant.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"Lily."

I blink. Blue sky.

Sitting up, I look around, eyes widening hugely as I recognise where I am, then look up at the person with me.

I blink again.

"...Gran?" I ask slowly, looking at her carefully. Her face flickers, now young, now old. She's faded like an old photo, but her eyes are piercing and immediate. Her house floats nebulously behind her, sketched in like watercolours, tall and pearl grey, windows to the wood and crab apple tree, big lawn, wooden fence, giant old fir tree with a wooden swing called "Princess Lily Flier". Of course, it's been torn down now; once Uncle Sammy died, we had to sell it and the developers just dozed over it and put up apartments.

"Little girl, you are so big now," she says, and I remember her voice, long ago and far away, lost to me when I was only nine. I'm the only grandchild to remember her, and she taught me so much in such a short time. "You become very tangled. What have happens to you?" I blink. Temporal definitions probably elude her now. What's time, when you're dead? "Your spirit is not alone. It is apart. This is wrong, child, very wrong. How do you do this?" Then she pauses, looking around, and holds her hand out. Without thinking, I take it. It's warm and dry and soft, just as I remember. "Come inside. The coyotes are about tonight."

Night?

I look up, and it's dark. Orion and Cassiopeia float in the sky, and I stand up abruptly. My stars. Anywhere I'd go, no matter where I walked the Earth, no matter how far from home I was, the stars were always the same, the one thing that has killed me about being on Thedas. I look down at my gran, and she has solidified to the age she was when I remember her, still keen-eyed. "Quickly now," she says, and I follow her to the house. It's perfectly clear now, exactly itself, right down to the smell in the air and the chips in the paint. Only... I know where I am.

Curiouser and curiouser.

I follow her into the house, keeping hold of her hand, and she turns, bolting the door. Breathing a sigh, she seems to relax a notch, and she looks at me over her shoulder for a very long moment, before shuffling into the kitchen. Everything seems hyper-real, and I don't know what to make of it.

"That is because I died too soon to teach you," she says, and I jump, staring at her. "I am sorry, child. Life happens at its own pace." She is standing at the stove now, cooking popcorn in a small pot.

"What can you tell me now?" I ask, realising I may not have this chance again. "I remember when I met you in the NightLands, right after you died. That house, with the dark trees, I went there before. I talked to you then," I blurt, and she looks at me for a long moment. I remember now, her silences, how she would carefully consider every statement before making it.

Something maybe I might benefit from doing more often.

"You remembered so little of it," she says regretfully, and I bow my head. "You were small. It is well, but broken. I am sorry, girl." The popcorn finishes, and she pulls it off the heat, then turns it into a bowl and sprinkles it with salt. We sit on the couch together, and she sets the bowl in my lap. There is a knock, and Gran pauses, popcorn halfway to her mouth.

Not even Nolan knows about this place.

"Yes, he does," Gran says, and I jump again, looking at her. She's looking directly at me, and something about her gaze is... scary. Maybe because she's been dead for so long. Some of her basic... _her_ness has leached out. She sighs, shaking her head. "He is at the door," she says.

It is on the tip of my tongue to ask, 'Should I let him in?', but I don't. It's a near thing.

Because that phrase. That phrase.

The look on Gran's face is eloquent.

"Lily!" I can hear him outside.

"Oh gods," I say, and then the one thing I wonder why it never occurred to me to do before: I pray. Bowing my head, I close my eyes and my ears, ignoring all except the circling of my thumb around the spiral.

_Wise and terrible Morpheus guide me  
catch me  
find me  
and  
show me the way through the darkness  
I don't know who I can trust  
but I trust you, oh Lord of Dreams  
By your hand could I be delivered  
Drive the demons away  
Please, I would dedicate much to your service  
if I but knew what to offer, I would do so on my knees  
Help me_

"Lily."

There is cold wind on my cheeks, and I open my eyes, looking up slowly, not letting go of my token. Nolan is crouched in front of me, looking between me and Gran, who has just slid the bolt home again.

"I'm here," he says simply, and I stare at him. "This is the last place I could find where you might be safe. I..." He glances at Gran, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "I don't like to disturb places like this. I apologise," he says, and she nods. "Look, we haven't got much time, honestly. This place is only safe because you almost never come here. I've left the... other guy... somewhere else. You need to understand, you're glowing brighter now. Whatever you're doing is making things worse, so stop it. Or finish it. Something. But do it fast, because there's only so much I can do."

"I was praying," I tell him, and he nods. I stare at him for a long moment, and he doesn't bat an eyelash. "She can read my mind." He looks at Gran for a moment, then back at me.

"So can I," he says, and I gasp. "I just choose not to, most of the time. It's hard when you're shouting, I must say." He looks at me for a moment, then shakes his head. "You're asking questions you don't want the answers to."

"I'm making statements," I say, and he grins. "So you heard me praying."

He blinks, then looks down, slightly defeated. I caught him.

"Yes."

"And then you came in," I continue, and he pauses.

"How many people do you suppose still actually worship the Greek gods?" he asks, changing the subject. I blink. "Gods don't die, though, their worship just dies out. And then sometimes, if all of their followers are gone, they go to sleep, until they're called again. People get confused about what's a spirit and what's a god, what's a demon and what's just lost souls. In places where you can't remember your dream walking, or you can't dream walk at all, the answers are too elusive. Certain things just fail to have a provable solution. It only comes easily in worlds with magic. Otherwise too many drugs are involved, and your perceptions are too warped to be reliable."

I stare at him. Whatever that has to do with the conversation at hand is beyond me. He laughs, and I scowl at him.

"I knocked before you prayed. I'm not a god, Lily."

That's two. He's not a god, and he didn't die. He lives here. That makes him either spirit or demon.

His eyes are a little scary for a moment, but he sighs, looking down. "I'll tell you what the difference is. Demons want to go into three dimensions. They're consumed with the idea of it. Something about the number three just drives them crazy. They can be controlled with numbers, which is why glyphs work. It's like a genetic deficiency, or an addiction. A sickness. But bad things happen when lines are crossed, so as far as I can tell, it's a path for the extremely stupid or the incredibly wicked. Like anyone sensible, I prefer to be neither, and I seem to have a bit of a protective streak, so we're kind of in this mess together."

I blink. The idea that this was putting someone in danger besides me just... good gods, I'm incredibly stupid. "Okay. You sound like you have a plan."

"Yeah. I'll keep you here until you wake up, and then I'll go play hide and seek with that thing, to distract it. So... try to remember you have to go."

W-

"Lily." I look at Gran, and she smiles.

"Walk tall, my girl," she says, and I cover my mouth with my hand. That was always what she said when I left.

"Stop thinking so much," Nolan says. Reaching out, he touches my forehead-

[Next Chapter: Sept. 10th]


	38. Hazy Shade of Winter

When I wake up, I'm standing outside with my dog sitting patiently by my foot. I'm dressed in breeches and tunic, wrapped in a cloak, not quite facing the dawn. My fingers are frozen where they've been exposed to the chill wind, my cheeks cold, and... wet. I've been crying. Looking toward Antiva.

Oh gods.

I hurry inside, a dark foreboding in my stomach. Back in the bedroom, I find Alistair sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, looking defeated. He looks up at me, not able to cover the storm of fury and despair for a moment, and I blink, fearing with sinking heart what could have happened. "What do you need?" he asks, voice and eyes becoming harder than I've ever seen them, making me take half a step back.

"Alistair?" I ask, my voice thin and quavery with the sudden fear that is trying to choke me. "What- What happened? Why was I outside?" He stares at me for a long moment, and I wrap my arms around my waist, feeling sick. "I'm so tired of being afraid all the time," I confess, bowing my head. I lean against the wall next to the door, and there is a long pause; at last I feel his hand at my shoulder and turn to him immediately, throwing my arms about his waist. "Don't let go!" I beg, my voice a high-pitched whisper, and he finally - finally! - puts his arms around me, holding me close.

"You were... _gone_again, Lily, and I couldn't call you back. She didn't recognise the words; nothing happened," he says, and oh the agony in his voice. "You fell asleep in my arms, but she's the one who woke up, and... she wasn't happy. Not at all." He buries his face in my hair, breathing deeply, holding as tightly to me as I am to him. "The things she said... Lily... Maker..." He can't even finish, and I shudder.

"She doesn't speak for me anymore. She doesn't. Whatever she said to put that look on your face, Alistair, she's wrong. She's wrong."

"Do you... still... love _him_?" he asks, sounding as though the question is dragged from him. Of course, it must have been the crux of their argument.

I choke on a sob, shaking my head in denial, even though I know I can't lie to him. "I can't help it... but that doesn't make _us_a lie. My life with you is beautiful, and it makes sense, and I want to keep it." I can still feel the tension in him, and the dam within me just bursts, making me speak very quickly and all in one breath. "You make me laugh, and you hold me when I cry, and you protect me, and you understand me, and you don't judge me, and I don't have to try so hard to be good enough for you, because I already am, and I love you for it, I do, and I don't take it for granted, not for a second. Oh gods, please- Please don't give up on me."

A shudder runs through him as he squeezes me, and he shakes his head, though it takes him a moment to respond, and I wonder whether that was a hesitation. "Never, love, not as long as I draw breath... but this can't go on." He pulls me toward the bed, sitting down and dragging me into his lap; I cling to him, curling up and resting my head against his shoulder.

"I know. Nolan says we're running out of time, too."

"What did he ask of you?" Alistair asks darkly, but I shake my head.

"Nothing. He said that the difference between him and a demon is that he prefers to not be stupid or evil, so he hasn't got any desire to be on this side, with us. He's never asked anything of me but that I try to keep myself safe. He said I'm glowing more brightly, so I either need to finish whatever it is I'm going to do, or figure out how to stop doing it."

Alistair exhales slowly, as though he's reluctant to speak. "That's... what woke me, I think... There was magic in the air, and I could smell it."

"I hate magic!" I cry in a fit of pique. "I wish it didn't exist! Everything stops making sense when magic is involved!"

Alistair shrugs. "And yet, without magic, we'd both have been dead long ago, and never have even met. So... We need to figure out what to do, because I want to keep you, too."

Right. Focus.

"Uh- Well... The only thing I can think is-" I shudder at the thought, but I know we have to go in search of Mahariel's clan. "We'd better go to the Brecilian right away, because clearly things are getting worse."

"It's the middle of winter," he says, not so much a protest as a warning.

I close my eyes, and put my trembling flame of total faith in his hands. "I've never travelled overland during winter, but... I know we were two winters on the road, so... I trust you."

He presses his cheek to my hair, breathing deeply. "We'll need to travel much lighter. The trunks will have to be sent back to Nate."

"Most of it isn't necessary," I agree, nodding. And just like that, we've already begun to plan.

It doesn't take us two hours to gather the supplies we need; Alistair already had most of it. Travel cross-country means wearing armour, too, so for the first time since That Night, I put on Shadow of the Empire, and all the accessories that go with it.

Oh, and I feel lighter, faster, stronger, smarter, everything.

I shake my head, shivering and trying to adjust. It makes me dizzy, and I have to sit down for a moment. I cover it by going through my pack again, not wanting anything to delay us leaving. It passes in a few moments, and I find that it's a good thing I thought to, because I've almost forgot my carving kit.

"You're bringing that?" Alistair asks doubtfully, and I nod once.

"I can always ditch it on the way if it proves to be necessary, but as long as I can have it with me, I will. It's a way I can make us coin if it ever becomes critical."

We need to get some more food before we go, so I seek out Bella, finding her just waking and feeding Seria in the nursery. She looks up when I come in, and her face falls. "You're leaving," she says, and it isn't a question. "It's the middle of winter," she protests, and I shrug.

"I know. But... we have to. Something's come up, and... it can't wait. So... I was wondering if you could spare us some provisions. We've got most of what we need, but some dried fruit or nuts would be welcome. And cheese. There's never enough cheese, seems like."

She nods, rising, baby still at her breast, and throws a blanket over her shoulder as she simply leaves the room, toting Seria along serenely. I follow after her, keenly aware of the weight of my armour, the pack over my shoulder, and the helm under my arm. In the kitchen, Bella sees to it that I have as much food as I'm capable of carrying. Seria is done eating by the time Bella's finished ordering the cook, waving at me excitedly over Bella's shoulder as I follow her to the great hall, where Alistair is still talking with Teagan, Ponka waiting patiently at his side.

Alistair picks up his pack when we come in, slinging it over his shoulder as Teagan clasps forearms with him. Bella and Teagan both hug me, and I plant a kiss on sweet Seria's little cheek, because I know I'll never see her again. If I ever come back this way, she'll be much bigger, and completely different.

"Come visit us in Antiva sometime," I murmur, and Bella beams at me, promising to try as soon as Seria is out of nappies.

Yeah... I can't imagine what a pain in the ass it'd be to travel with a baby who needs constant feeding and changing. I wouldn't choose it.

They follow Alistair and me outside, bidding us farewell from the top of the stairs. I put my helm on, adjusting my cloak, and when I look back up at Teagan, I see that look, the one people get when they see me in it for the first time. I suddenly look exactly like her, because it covers where the tattoo would have been. I look at him for a long moment, then nod.

Seeing is believing.

It's still early morning when we leave Redcliffe; this is the first time I've travelled with Alistair, just the two of us alone with Ponka.

Watching him that night as he sets up our tent and I sit by the fire, unpacking a few of the perishables Bella sent with us, I realise with staggering clarity how dangerous all of this is. Not that I didn't know it before, but I try so hard not to look at it. Sure, we still have a stash of kits and poultices, but I know there are some things that only direct healing will fix. If he falls, I'm very likely to get dead in short order. There's no one else around for miles and miles.

What's even more scary is the idea that his life could depend on _me_.

To that end, I pull out my version of the journal and begin to brush up on Elvish... just in case.

The nights are frigid now, cold enough to rattle bones, but with Ponka and Alistair on either side of me, I hardly feel it. Alistair wraps himself around me, as though if he could just hold me tightly enough, some echo of Mahariel's memory won't reassert itself.

I dream, but it's fragmented. I remember being at Gran's, lining up dominoes on her kitchen floor, but I can't tell if it's a memory or if I was just being held there. Either way, I'm just grateful for every morning I wake up right where I expect to be.

Days become more treacherous as the mornings turn icy and the afternoons prone to sleet. It slows us, which is bad news.

"I wish it would just make up its mind and snow already," Alistair grouses on the fifth day. The sleet is an insistent battering against the lean-to he hastily constructed in the lee of a rock just as the clouds burst; despite its hammering and my freezing toes, I'm uncommonly exhausted by all the walking, and drift off against his shoulder. I've been so tired, I just pass out as soon as I lay my head, in the evenings, and despite my nightly focus on Elvish, haven't been dreaming more than snatches and scraps, which is a blessing. I hope it lasts.

That night, I'm crouched over the fire making journey-cakes when Alistair stops pacing, across from me. I glance up to see what he's looking at, and the moon is a pale, cold disk, hanging fat in the middle of a halo that means ice high in the atmosphere, and the probability of a decidedly less friendly turn to the weather.

"Snow," I say, and he looks over his shoulder at me.

"Probably," he agrees.

"Hmm... Careful what you wish for." Then something else occurs to me. "Alistair... what day is it?"

He blinks at me, brow furrowed. "Ah... It's the last night of Haring. Tomorrow is First Day. I was just thinking about it..." he says, rambling on for a moment. I don't hear him; I'm too busy feeling my scalp prickling as I mentally count the days and still come up empty-handed. Then a pattern emerges.

Nausea. Easily tired. Dizziness and hot flashes. Emotional roller coaster.

Missing period.

Oh shit.

Alistair breaks off abruptly. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

My mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. He turns around and looks behind him, then glances at Ponka, but nothing is actually amiss, no. It's just me.

"Uh- Buh- It's- The- What-" I swallow. I don't want to tell him. What if I miscarry? What if he tries to keep me from doing what I need to do because of it? That's a far more sobering question, and I blink, shaking my head. Looking back down at the cakes, I realise they need to be flipped. Not looking him in the eye makes it a little easier. "I had no idea the time had passed so quickly," I say, which is completely true. "I guess with so much going on, I just... didn't think to mark the days." Feeling a little steadier, I smile, glancing up at him. "Happy New Year."

That night, I have a nightmare of running through endless, shadowy corridors, doors slamming around me and grasped at by nebulous hands, never able to find a place to hide that didn't begin to fill with shadows in moments. I wake up to Alistair shaking me at dawn, looking worried. "You were whispering and whimpering," he says, and I can't tell him why. It just evaporates like smoke, leaving me feeling uneasy, because I'm sure there's something important I'm forgetting.

Mid-morning, it starts snowing, big, fat flakes floating down from the sky, slowly blanketing everything, softening the edges and silencing the world. Because sound doesn't travel well, if it weren't for Ponka, we would never have noticed the giant dire wolves coming up on us from behind.

Hunting must still be lean, after the Blight.

There are six of them, and the first thing Ponka does is howl so loudly it makes a couple of them shake their heads, then he tears off after one of them, immediately going for the kill. The wolf is ready, though, and they tangle.

The others close in on me and Alistair, not hesitating; they are big and infernally fast: low-slung, powerful, and hungry. Alistair shouts, making my ears ring, the sound of his sword clearing the sheath, and an impact on his shield reaching me, but I don't have time to focus on it.

I pull the blades off my back with a quickness, feeling them thrum as they activate into flame and snow, immediately before one of them leaps on me, knocking me flat on my back. I get the daggers up in time to scorch its face, the fire right next to its eye. It leaps backward, but there's already one on my right arm, and I twist over to stab at it with my ice. The burnt one chomps down on my leg, dragging me.

Oh gods, I can feel how powerful its neck is. If it shakes me, it'll break my leg.

Frantically, I kick it in the face, the magic in my boots lending me a little extra stomp, and it yelps. The one at my shoulder has recovered somewhat and lunges in again just as I'm scrabbling backward, trying to get my feet under me in the damp, snow-covered grass. It's on me before I'm up, catching me still crouched, and it's all I can do to just point my flame at it before its jaws are snapping in my face. I hold on tight to my daggers as I'm bowling over backward again, and I feel a hot flood over my hand as the wolf howls.

I'm pinned under it, the other one latching onto my leg again, a crushing grip on my ankle, jerking at it and slowly dragging me further under the wolf on top of me. I kick wildly, twisting the dagger in my hand as hard as I can, screaming at the top of my lungs. Whatever has hold of my ankle lets go as I connect with my foot again. The wolf on top of me clamps my shoulder in its jaws. I barely have time to take a breath before he shakes me viciously, and my entire left arm goes dead with a sickening crunch, making me reel with a wave of shock.

I pull my flame out of its side, plunging it in again and again, nothing else I can do until it drops me. I scramble backward away from it as it collapses, pushing myself along on my back with my feet, but the moment I'm clear of it, the one that had been worrying at my leg notices me again and attacks.

_Athena!_

Time slows down on the wings of an adrenaline rush as my fingers flex around the hilt of my flame. Unable to sit up enough to actually attack, I just brace myself and wait for my moment. If I have anything to say about it, I'm going to shove it down his throat. He knows better than to grab my legs now, and just goes for my face. He's not expecting that I can still move, and as his jaws come close enough for me to smell his foetid breath, I whip my flame into the side of his neck, carving his throat open and showering myself with a stinking rain of blood. All of his legs give out at once, and the heavy weight across my chest, crushing my shoulder, is so blindingly painful-

There's something wet and warm dragging across my face, and I open my eyes to see Ponka crouched next to me. He sits up immediately and barks, practically dancing back and forth. "Ponka-" My shoulder reasserts the fact that it's broken, and I scream-

"-just don't move, Lily, I've got it-" The wolf shifts toward my broken shoulder, crushing it worse, and I scream-

"-balls I'm so sorry, hang on..." The wolf finally lifts off me, and I can take a full breath. The sudden rush of agony is incandescent, blinding me. Distantly, I hear Alistair's voice, but can't make out what he's saying. His motions are swift and effective, but completely brutal, as he mercilessly strips me from my armour and sets my shoulder. I don't have anywhere near enough breath left for screaming as I feel the bones grind together.

It takes hours, it takes years, and a handful of heartbeats later it's receding, shivering down with every throb, less and less painful, until I can't feel much more than the warmth of the cloth magically knitting my flesh and bone back together between his hands.

As my vision clears and I catch my breath, I blink up at Alistair, and the pearl grey sky above. "That-" I swallow hard. "That hurt," I say, and then I do the most curious thing: I cry and laugh at the same time, startling and alarming him, but there's nothing I can really say to reassure him. I'm calm again by the time the kit has finished with me, and Alistair helps me get cleaned up and back into my armour, which is hardly the worse for wear. Not its fault that the wolf yanked on me so hard.

The echo of that memory is loud and sickening, and my stomach turns. Suddenly the wet-dog, blood, and feces stench of the dead wolves overwhelms me, and I stumble off to the side to throw up in the snow.

A few moments later, Alistair is hauling me to my feet. "Got to get moving," he says, "Before the blood brings other curious parties." I stagger after him, hastily pulling myself together, following him as quickly as I can. When he finally stops, letting me catch my breath and get a little water into my mouth, I sit down on a rock and hang my head between my knees, willing away the vertigo that is terrible injury followed by healing magic and immediate running.

I can taste the black waters of nausea rising again, and drop my pack, digging around inside until I find the dried apples. Tucking a slice into my mouth, I suck on it and pray. After a couple of breaths, my stomach settles, and I hum with relief. I grab a few more slices to eat on the way before tucking everything back in my bag.

It occurs to me that Alistair's been quiet all this time, and I look up. He's eyeing me doubtfully, and I blink. "What?"

"Are you sick?"

Oops.

Well... I can't lie to him. He'd find out later, anyway, and then I'd have to admit to the fact that, yes honey, a couple of months ago, I lied.

I shift uncomfortably. "No." He just stands there, motionless, staring at me, and I give him a weak smile.

His eyes widen and he points at me. "Wait, you- Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Surprise," I say, spreading my hands. "Wasn't how I'd intended the conversation to go, but... yeah."

"You're serious?" he asks, though his voice is flat enough for it to have been a statement. I nod, and he runs his hands through his hair, turning away abruptly, pacing a few steps back and forth like he's got a million things going on in his head and can't keep track of them all. In the next moment, he's closing in on me quickly. I gasp, startling as he reaches for me, pulling me to my feet and into his arms; he holds me tightly as he buries his face in my neck. "Maker, no wonder you've been crying so much." He pulls back, searching my face, then presses a tremblingly soft kiss to the centre of my forehead, thumb stroking over my cheekbone.

The crushing fact that it's just him and me with a dog against the whole bloody planet gnaws at the edges of my mind, but I try to find peace, just for one, precious moment.

"We have to go," he says, pulling back regretfully, and I nod.

Much to my relief, Alistair doesn't smother me, he just gets... more determined. Woe betide anyone or anything that even considers looking at me funny. He doesn't change anything about what we're doing, but that night, he overwhelms me with the intensity of his desire; our tent is well heated by stuttering breath and shaking hands, and he takes to sleeping with his shield hand parked firmly over my lower belly.

Not that it keeps away the nightmares. When I dream, I'm running. Always running. Sometimes with Tamlen or Nolan, but mostly alone, and wherever I turn, the shadows are there. I'm just glad there hasn't been a repeat of Mahariel's visit. I'd put up with nightmares for the rest of my life if it meant that would never happen again.

It's just passing midday when the trees of the Brecilian emerge from the snowy haze in front of us, three days later. I stop, staring at them, and my stomach clenches.

"Well... here we go," I say, full of nerves.

"I'm really not looking forward to this," he remarks, and I snort.

"Yeah, well, join the club."

"Ooh, we have a club now? Do we have a secret handshake?" he asks, startling a laugh from me as we continue toward whatever the Dalish will have in mind for us.

We travel a fair distance into the wood, looking for a piece of high ground, then set camp a few hours before sundown.

"All right, Ponka," I say, settling down with a bowl of stew. "We're here to speak with these people, so if it becomes necessary for you to attack someone, don't kill them. Okay?" He barks an affirmative, then looks out into the woods a few times.

"Someone there?" I ask, turning around, and he whimper-growls softly in negation. "Oh, you're going out for a bit?" He barks affirmative again, and I ruffle his ears. "Okay. Be good, and if you find something interesting, bring it back." I kiss his forehead, and he barks happily, dancing backward and wiggling his whole butt before he dashes out of the camp.

Alistair and I huddle together next to the fire, and after eating, I'm practically comatose, dozing against his shoulder. Just after sundown, I wake again, the sound of Ponka's barking faint, but close enough to have pulled me from sleep.

"He's been getting closer," Alistair murmurs, noticing when I lift my head.

"I wonder what he's doing..." I muse, but I don't have long to wait. Within ten minutes, he's back in camp, barking all the way. "What are you doing?" I ask him, completely mystified. "Did you find something interesting after all?"

What I'm not expecting is that the 'something interesting' Ponka found is a couple of Dalish hunters, who warily stalk into the edge of our firelight with bows drawn, though the arrows point downward for the moment.

I catch myself staring at their tattooed faces, mentally matching the patterns to the gods they're meant to honour, and the woman sneers at me. "Put your eyes back in your head, _shem_," she says, voice hard, and I swallow. "What are you doing in our woods? I thought by now all the _shemlen_would know better than to come through here."

Taking a deep breath, I'm careful to keep my movements slow and deliberate as I sit up. "We're looking for a particular clan," I say, trying to keep my voice level and unintimidated, despite how I'm actually feeling. "Will you let us speak to your Keeper?"

The male actually raises his bow, aiming at me, as soon as I ask this, and my hands lift in surrender without conscious direction on my part. "We're not taking _shems_to our camp. The last time we let that happen, we lost three men."

I close my eyes for a moment, remembering Tamlen and Mahariel's suggestion that we kill one of them so the others would tell the rest of the _shems_not to come back to the wood. This is not going well.

Alistair reaches down and flips his shield over, showing the gryphons on it. "I can't speak for anyone else's actions, but I was the Warden who stood with Mahariel during the Blight, and there are those among the Dalish who would recognise me. Please; we're not here to disturb anyone, but we do need to speak with your Keeper."

The archers exchange glances, then begin whistling. The invisible rustling I hear in the forest is undoubtedly specifically designed to tell us that we're surrounded, and it raises my small hairs. The male lowers his bow, exchanging another look with the woman, whistling something else. There's an answer from the darkness, and she nods. He turns and runs off, and she backs up, leaning against a tree to watch us.

"We'll just sit right here and wait for word."

It doesn't take long, maybe twenty minutes, before a small army of Dalish come out of the woods and surround the camp, all with weapons drawn. I can feel the tension thrumming through Alistair, and Ponka rises, putting himself between me and some of them, but they won't be able to protect me, or themselves, against so many. After a few moments of silence, a very elderly elf comes from the path that led all the Dalish here. He moves slowly, but his eyes are brilliant and keen, missing nothing. He stands near the fire, facing us, eying us, taking our measure.

"I am told you wished to speak with me," he says without preamble, and Alistair nods.

"Yes," he says, bowing his head respectfully. "We've come in search of Mahariel's clan."

The Keeper is silent, studying us, and I see his eyes flick down to the shield at Alistair's side. He whistles a few bird calls, answered by several other whistlers in the darkness. "You are recognised by some of our hunters," he says, at length. "They tell me that you do not lie about who you are. Because you were with her, we will grant you this one trespass. Use it wisely. Other clans may not be so welcoming, but there are those among us who remember you." He whistles again, and there is more rustling in the trees. "Go east, and when you come to the river, cross, then follow it north. You will be watched. If her clan is not pleased to see you, it will be on your own heads." He whistles again, and most of the Dalish turn away, back toward where they came from. "Leave now."

"You want us to travel in the dark?" Alistair asks, and the Keeper grins wolfishly.

"I said I would allow you trespass, for her sake, but we do not have to play host. Our hunters have better things to do than look after intruding _shemlen_all night. Let that be for her clan, if they choose." With that, he turns away, disappearing into the darkness with the rest of the Dalish.

After a few moments, Alistair lets out his breath in an exasperated puff. "Well. That could have gone better," he says, and I snort, rising and stretching.

"We're still alive. I'd say it went very well, all things considered. Hopefully they'll be... uh... possibly more happy to see us? I don't even know. But I guess we'll find out tonight, whatever we've got to say about it. Gods, I'm tired." I yawn, stretching again, then trudge through cleaning up the camp with him. Within the hour, we're headed east once more.

I really, really do not like walking around in the woods at night.

"This is madness," Alistair mutters, helping me over a fallen tree. I can't help but agree.

It takes us at least three hours to find the river, and another to find a place to cross. After that, I'm completely exhausted, and have to sit down for a minute. Alistair sits next to me, stretching out his legs. When I lean against his shoulder, I fall asleep instantly, only to be woken what seems like moments later by the whistle and thump of an arrow burying itself in the tree about three feet above my head. I shriek like a little girl, practically jumping into Alistair's lap, as he shouts, "Maker's breath!" Ponka leaps to his feet, not fooled in the slightest, staring at a particular place in the canopy; his bark is both threatening and reproachful.

"Keep moving, _shemlen_," a male voice calls from the darkness, sounding bored and put-upon.

The Keeper wasn't kidding.

We drag ourselves to our feet, though if I'm being honest, I'm dragging ass a lot more than Alistair and Ponka are. Or maybe they're just better at hiding it.

Following the river is treacherous footing at best, but we don't dare stray too far from it into the darkness beneath the trees for fear of losing it, and really, because I don't want to piss off the Dalish any more than we already have, just by being here.

The river grows swifter, louder, as we continue north over at least two hours, and then I hear the thunder of a waterfall, telling me we're closing in on the place we're meant to be.

Oh gods.

Oh gods, Mahariel's clan.

"What's your plan?" Alistair murmurs, low enough that he couldn't be overheard by anyone else, and I stare up at him.

"I don't have one," I admit.

He stops, right in the middle of a step, and looks down at me, incredulous. "What?"

"Last time I had one of those, I got captured and tortured instead. This all hinges on my face, and whether anyone believes me. And honestly? It's going to depend on who we talk to first, and how we're met. So... no. No plan. Just... let's go. This is going to be finished before the dawn, one way or another."

There is a moment of silence while he just stares at me, then shakes his head. "Maker's breath, Lily, you're dangerous," he says, sounding resigned and making me feel about two inches high. "And _so_bad at chess." Without another word, he turns away, resuming our road, and I hang my head, trudging after him.

Is it stupid that I don't know what I'm going to do? How do you tell a group of people who were sort of your family that you came back from the dead? This is going to be the hardest test... and probably the most dangerous.

And I am so weary, I might collapse. I wish I had some kind of caffeine or something, gods, my kingdom for a cola. Just one.

I hear whistling in the trees about twenty minutes later, and stop. "I think we're here," I whisper, my stomach clenching, and Alistair stops beside me, looking around.

Oh gods.

I see movement out of the corner of my eye and jump, turning to face it; two archers resolve themselves out of the darkness under the trees.

"State your business," one of them says, as they come out into the uncertain light of waning moon reflected on snow. They stalk toward us, bows at the ready but pointed at the ground.

I don't know the second man, but I know the speaker. Oh gods, I know him, though his hair's grown out a lot since I saw him last. The top half is pulled back in a topknot, his mouth set in a hard line that it's not used to holding. He's easy-going, laid back, a man used to smiles.

I swallow hard, holding up my hands, not taking my eyes off him.

"Junar?" I ask, my voice as unsteady as I feel, and both of them freeze, shocked.

He blinks, then raises his bow, though he doesn't quite aim it at me. "Name yourself," he says harshly, and I swallow again. I don't want to do this. My casual vanity in a videogame has become a heavy burden of lack of anonymity that makes me sick. I don't _want_everyone to know my name.

And yet here I am, and what choice do I have?

All in the name of just trying to live a life I can be healthy and productive in.

Here we go again.

"Lily," I say, and there is another moment of shock, followed by him taking several steps back, and now his arrow is brought to bear.

"No, you're not," he says flatly. "She's dead."

_Why, why... every time... Gods save me from this endless justifying of my existence..._

"I know... and I'm sorry about that. Things didn't quite go the way I intended. I'm... going to take off my helmet..." Slowly, I raise my hands to my head, and he watches me carefully as I pull my helm off, then takes another step back, eyes widening hugely.

"No," he breathes, the string of his bow going slack as he stares at me. Long moments tick by as he struggles with the fact of my presence, finally covering his mouth with one hand, shaking his head. "No, no that's not possible," he says, almost to himself, and the other hunter, not so staggered as Junar, looks at him askance.

_"Asha el'falon?"_he asks, and Junar blinks. Am I a friend?

"Ah... I... don't know..." he says slowly, unable to take his eyes off me.

The silence stretches for a few more moments as Junar clearly has no idea what to do, and I finally decide to break it, taking a deep breath. Maybe if I just... throw down some Elvish. _"Ar en'an dirth'era_ Marethari _emma halam. El souveri, el aravel,_Junar... please."

I've come here tonight to speak with Marethari about how I died. We're exhausted, and travelled a long way...

His jaw drops. "Creators..." he breathes.

"Falon'din," I say, mouth twisting wryly as I name the god of death, and he blinks, speechless for another moment.

"Triss... We need Airadan," he says, glancing at the other archer out of the corner of his eye.

"Ashalle?" he asks, but Junar shakes his head.

"Not yet."

I shake my head, too. "I'd rather keep this pretty quiet, if it's all the same to you, actually. The last thing she needs is to mourn me twice," I say quietly, getting Junar's attention in an instant.

Triss looks between me and Junar a couple of times before turning away, heading back toward their camp, presumably. Slowly, Junar paces toward me, and I keep still, watching him. He circles, finally standing in front of me, examining my face.

_"Vallaslin'din,"_he says, eyes narrowing, and I nod.

"I know." The ink. Of course it'll be a big deal to the Dalish, and might be the thing that makes them not believe me. "I _did_die. When Zevran brought me here to bury, that really was me." This rocks him back on his heels, and he covers his mouth again as I shrug. "I still have the sketch, but... it would be wrong... without..."

_Tamlen. Oh, my sweet, irreverent Tamlen..._

Oh gods, please don't let them make me get the _vallaslin_. Surely they won't. I'm not even an elf. It'll be fine. I'm worrying over nothing. Right.

Junar's face falls with the echo of hard mourning, and he reaches up hesitantly to touch my cheek bone, the roughened fingertip of his shooting hand rasping a gentle line from the corner of my eye toward my mouth, tracing a tattoo that isn't there. He snatches his hand back as though burned when there is a whistle from toward the waterfall, and steps away.

_Tamlen was an archer, too._

A sudden sense-memory of roughened hands, like Junar's, tracing my curves and splaying across my skin, makes me gasp with the strength of it, and I close my eyes, staggering a bit and putting a hand to my head. Someone steadies me from behind, and I know just from the breadth of the palm that it's Alistair. That brief contact grounds me, and I shake my head, trying to stay present.

Triss comes back with another man, who must be Airadan. Dark-haired, short, and burly, he is clearly not a man to be crossed.

This man... I made him up.

_All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream._

It's very weird and hair-raising to be standing in front of a man who only existed in my own head.

_Things exist whether you know about them or not._

Airadan is standing right in front of me now, and I blink, having missed the part where he came up to me.

"I'm sorry, I'm incredibly exhausted, and I think I missed what you just said," I tell him.

He looks at me for a long time, studying me like Junar did, eyes hard and critical as they roam over my face. "You claim to be Lily," he says, and I nod.

"I am."

He reaches up, quick as a striking snake, and lifts my hair away from the side of my head, revealing one very rounded ear. He is decidedly unamused, taking a step back from me as his lip curls. "You might be a good mimic, but you're a _shemlen_. Lily's dead." A dagger rises from his hand out of nowhere, the point resting under my chin before anyone else can make a move. I freeze in place, tipping my head back a little out of instinct. "You disgrace yourself, and worse, you disgrace _her_-" I know. Oh, believe me, I know.

"Rabbit run," I interrupt, closing my eyes. If this doesn't work, I'm dead.

He pauses as I take a shaking breath. "What did you say?" he asks, voice quiet and deadly.

"Rabbit run," I repeat. "That's what I had to do, before you'd make me hunter. I had to snare three rabbits out of the run, and bring down a deer with my bow. I always thought Tamlen was better, though. He didn't need snares; his fingers were quick enough to pin them to the ground through the eye. Creators, he was fast. I was never any good with the bow, though. We never told anyone, but Tamlen helped me-"

"Enough," he says, interrupting, and I swallow, still not daring to open my eyes. "How can you possibly know such things?"

Oh gods, the point is so sharp where it rests against my neck.

_Keep your voice steady. Show no fear. Stand up straight and look him in the eye._

Good advice. Okay. Thanks, me.

"Because I'm not lying," I say, doing my level best to seem unintimidated. "Look at me, Airadan. You knew me before I earned my ink. Ignore my ears, and look at my face. Get a torch and look at my eyes. Close your eyes and listen to my voice." What can I say that will convince him, that will let me get to Marethari?

_Fourteen gathered to watch us leave. Six must have been guarding our exit._

"There were twenty-two of us, and half a dozen _da'lenen_," I say, getting Airadan's keen attention. Oh gods, can I name them all?

_Just breathe. Ignore the dagger point and think._

Not only do I have to remember the names of the people from in game, but also those I only made up from broken bits of Tolkien. I felt compelled to name everyone in the clan, not happy with 'elven female' and 'hunter' as designations. Oh gods.

_Breathe. Start with Merrill._

"Let's see... the adults were..." I count on my fingers: "Merrill, Marethari, Pol, Junar, Airadan, Rafflin, Caraje, Traleia, Eranor, Maren, Fenarel, Ilen, Ashalle, me and Tamlen, Belari, Pravain, Aldelir, Namori, Keltin, Jephyr..."

Oh shit, I'm forgetting someone. Someone canon.

_Paivel._

"...and Paivel. And the _da'lenen_... uh... Garathea, Chor... Birgyne..." Oh gods, the children are hard to remember. Why did I have to go and name them all? "Lessali, Deswin, and... ah... Sorry. I forget. It started with a 'u', though. Pol had just joined us; Junar was training him in the bow... did he ever make hunter?"

"You forgot Triss," Airadan says, not answering my question, and my brow furrows.

"Uh... no...? I never met him before tonight. He must be new."

There is a moment of silence, then Airadan lowers his knife; I draw a shaking breath, trying not to show how freaked out I am, still holding his gaze. He whistles, looking at me expectantly, but I have to shake my head.

"I don't remember the hunter's speak, sorry. I was never any good at it anyway," I admit. Mahariel couldn't whistle to save her life. I can, but I'm not about to tell them that.

There's another pause, then Airadan takes a breath, tipping his head back and scanning the trees. He whistles several times, getting responses from different places, then looks back at me, sizing me up.

"We'll go to the camp, but you don't speak to anyone. Put your helm back on."

Triss turns back before we leave, looking at Alistair, and arches an eyebrow at Airadan, whistling softly. Airadan shakes his head, then looks back over his shoulder at us.

"The _shemlen_stays," Airadan says.

"He's the Warden who was with me through the entire Blight, and my best friend. There's no-one I trust more," I say, lifting my chin.

_Zevran._

Shit.

Too late to call it back; the statement is a mistake that stops them all, and they look at me doubtfully, Airadan's eyes narrowing. I take a deep breath, bowing my head.

"I'm sorry - I know what you're thinking, but Zevran is another matter entirely." I swallow, shaking my head. "Please... you saw the state of him when he was here. It's not- not easy, for either of us. I don't want to..." The piece of me that will never forget that golden-eyed rogue wails in agony, and I have to steel myself to keep from crying, clapping my hands over my face, because my emotions run so close to the surface these days. "I can't," I say, shaking my head and trying to swallow the thick knot in my throat. A hand rests on my shoulder, too small to be Alistair's, and I look up.

Junar's eyes are sympathetic, something I somehow did not quite expect, even though he was Mahariel and Tamlen's best friend, as I wrote him. He hesitates for a long moment, clearly struggling with something, then his face softens a bit around the edges. "_Melava_ Zevran _an; ir abelas na'din_," he murmurs, and I nod, feeling my mouth twist. I know. I remember when Zev told me about it, how torn up he was, how beaten. _"Ar melava an."_And of course, Junar was here to see it.

_"Ir abelas, lethallin... Ma serranas,"_I murmur, not trusting my voice. I am so grateful to him for looking out for Zev during that harsh time in his life.

A time that I caused.

_And now look what you've done to him, you heartless, faithless cow. You think his life is any less harsh now?_

_"Abelas, abelas, ar bel'aravel en'an. Ar nuvenin'din numin,"_I whisper to Junar, trying to master myself. It's been a long night, I've travelled a long time, and I really, really don't want to cry.

"Shhh... _hamin, lethallan_," he murmurs back, telling me that he actually believes me. "_El'ven el aravelen, el'dirth_Marethari." I nod, a little jerky, but I'm so grateful for his comfort. We'll just go to camp and talk to Marethari. All will be well.

I hope.

Junar is convinced, but Airadan isn't, and he shoots Junar a warning look, which is completely ignored. I'm not sure what else I can do to convince Airadan. I've got more information than I ought to, if I were a pretender, and I even speak Elvish. Junar has apparently decided to work under the assumption that I'm me, and I'm back, falling into step beside me.

The Dalish camp is small but well-organised, with at least a dozen aravels loosely surrounding a large fire pit, off to the side of the pool at the base of the falls. The clan has expanded quite a bit, apparently. Most of the aravels are dark, the occupants presumably asleep. Airadan leads us to one that is still lit and raps on the door.

Oh, oh gods, and there she is. Keeper Marethari, standing framed by the doorway, much shorter than I thought she would be. She motions us forward, and I enter her aravel right behind Junar. Behind me, Airadan whistles, and Alistair says, "Hey..."

Triss is blocking him from entering the aravel, and I bite my lip. I can't stand up to the Dalish on this... it's pretty much their prerogative. "I'll be right back," I assure him. I wish I felt as sure of the situation as I'm pretending to be.

The inside of the aravel reminds me of Romany wagons crossed with a wigwam and decorated like Ireland meets Art Nouveau. Oh gods, I'm on my own, here.

_Oh, wily and silver-tongued Hermes, lend me a touch of your clever wit._

Marethari sits down in a chair, gesturing to a low couch across from her. I sit, feeling odd about it, and Junar crouches next to me. Airadan elects to stand in front of the door.

"I am told that you have come here to speak to me," she says, and I nod.

"Yes. I... have a problem that I think only you can help me solve," I say, hesitating, then take off my helm.

The blood drains from her face as she stares at me, much as the others who recognised me have done. I take a slow breath, waiting for whatever will come next.

"L- Lily?" she asks, confused, frightened, surprised.

I nod, but Airadan grumbles under his breath before saying, "So she says, but she's a _shemlen_."

"And yet she speaks Elvish, knew me by sight, and named everyone in the clan except Uthia," Junar adds quietly. Oh yeah! _That_was her name!

"Is he correct? You are human?" Marethari asks, and I grimace.

"Yeahhh... sorry about that. Couldn't be helped."

She blinks, then her brow furrows. "I do not understand."

"I know. I barely understand it, myself, but... I'll tell you what I do know. I've managed to piece together what might have happened, but where magic is involved, things can get hazy. I'm from someplace beyond the Fade, another world like this one, but where there was no magic, and every person on the planet was human. I recently learned that before I was born, my soul was accidentally torn in half." I take a deep breath. Steady now. Everything depends on this.

"I was born here, also, and ended up living in two places at once because of this. It was confusing, but it wasn't a problem until I ended up going against the archdemon and died. That's when things went a little... strange. I felt such a powerful pull toward the part of my soul that's here that I was actually dragged across the veil because of it. From what I understand, it should have joined me, but that's not what happened. I shouldn't be here, but... that's magic, I suppose. It was never my intention to come here, because I have no wish to visit grief on everyone again, but..." Another breath. All of them are staring at me, and the combined weight of their gaze is so, so heavy.

"Having my soul fragmented and then coming here has attracted a demon to me." They all look alarmed, and Junar's hand goes to his dagger. I hold up my hands, eyes widening. "_Hamin, hamin!_" Relax! "It hasn't got me yet. I'm having a lot of nightmares, though, and I don't know how much longer I can hold it off. It's been suggested that if I can repair the rift, reclaim the piece that died here when I killed the archdemon, the demon won't have a trail to follow, and I'll be okay again. Well, that's the theory, anyway. I've been advised to visit my grave."

There is a long silence, and I try really hard not to squirm. I suddenly understand the term 'sitting in the hot seat'.

"What do you expect to find there?" Marethari asks, at length.

I shrug uncomfortably. "I don't know, honestly. I think one of three things will happen: one, nothing, which would be completely unhelpful; two, I somehow manage to find the lost piece of myself and then I don't know what will happen; or three..." I swallow. I've been trying so hard not to think about this possibility. "...The piece of my soul that I currently have hold of will... join the piece that's already dead. In which case... I- I suppose... I'll need you to... bury me... next to my other set of bones, please."

Another silence.

"Why does this sound like blood magic?" Airadan asks, and I bite my lip.

"I know; it's not, though. I have no way of knowing what's the right thing to do, here. Really, what I would like is to be able to sleep at night without fearing that I'll be devoured from within."

"Why did you not come back to us right away?" Marethari asks, and I bow my head.

"Because I ended up in Antiva, directly after arriving here, and... Things became difficult. Very complicated. I didn't want to disturb anyone, didn't want to come here and make everything confusing and painful again, for anyone. Everyone has already mourned me. I'm buried, I've got my tree, I didn't see any point in coming out here and dragging up the dead. But... that was before I knew I was fragmented, something I only recently discovered. I knew I had no choice but to come here, after that."

I sigh, a sudden wave of fatigue washing over me and narrowing the world down to a fine point, nearly blacking out. I hold my head as I sway, nearly falling into Junar, having to put a hand out in the next moment to right myself, and shake my head, trying to clear it. Junar puts his hand on my shoulder, steadying me as I shake my head again.

"Sorry- It's been a really long road; we started travelling at dawn, and never stopped for more than an hour or two until we got here. I think I'm nearing the limit of my ability to stay awake."

"Junar..." Marethari begins, then hesitates. "You spent more time with Lily and Tamlen than anyone else. What do you think?"

He chews at his lip for a moment, then gives me a lopsided smile. "She can't be anyone else. She knows a story that only she could know, and I happen to know it's true." He glances up at Airadan, and I feel my eyebrows rise. Junar grins. "You may not have said anything to anyone, but Tamlen told me."

I blink, trying to figure out what he's on about, then my sluggish brain catches up and I feel my lips twist into a wry smile. "Of course he did."

Airadan and Marethari are looking at us expectantly, and I colour, embarrassed. "Ah... It was... Uhm. The deer that I had to kill, to be a hunter... It... I was never any good with a bow. So... Tamlen took an arrow out of my quiver. We thought..." I feel my face fall, and look at my hands. "Of course. You always think there will be plenty of time... We thought it was just something we could keep working on... after we were Bonded..."

Marethari and Airadan wear matching scowls. "You participated in this deception, Junar?" Marethari asks, and I cut a glance at him, feeling bad.

He nods and shrugs with one shoulder, completely unrepentant. "They wanted to Bond. I didn't see how her knowing the bow better was going to change anything between them, so I just left it. It didn't matter in the long run, anyway," he says, then catches himself and winces, glancing at me guiltily.

I shrug. To these people, my death has been a fact for more than two years.

"Airadan?" Marethari asks, and he looks at me for a long moment before just shaking his head.

"I have no idea, Keeper. She seems to be... herself... I don't understand this at all."

"Me either," I say, reeling again, and Junar catches me, pushing me back upright. "I think I'm going to collapse," I tell them in an almost conversational tone, blinking.

"I believe that we should find her a place to r..." Whatever else Marethari says fades away as I close my eyes for just a second to alleviate their burning.

When I open them again, not a second later, I'm outside in the dark, draped over Junar's shoulder like a sack of grain. I see Ponka's legs trotting along next to Junar's, and let my lids sink closed.

When I open them next, it's daylight, and Alistair is leaning over me, shaking my shoulder.

"Lily, wake up," he says, looking worried, but trying to cover it. "We'll need to be moving soon. They want to take us out to the tree."

I don't have to ask what tree. I know. I sit up, finding that I'm sleeping on a pallet at the back of an aravel. Alistair puts a small handful of dried apples in my hand before I can even say anything, and I pop one in my mouth, laying down again as my stomach rolls, hoping that it stays put. Reaching out, he runs his hand over my belly, and the heat of his palm soothes the angry beast.

As I go through my morning ritual of trying not to throw up while I get dressed, I watch Alistair from the corner of my eye.

One thing about this... I never actually mentioned to him my suspicion that I could just drop dead.

"Uhm... Alistair...?" I say slowly, and he looks up, suddenly wary. "I..."

I can't say that. It'll only freak him out, particularly since I don't really have any idea whether it's even a possibility. "I'm really, really scared. I don't know what's going to happen," I confess. His face softens and he rises, coming to me and kneeling in front of me. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he nuzzles his cheek against my belly, where I'm starting to be able to detect a hardness under the surface that wasn't there before. His hands splay across my upper back as he kisses my stomach, and I run my fingers through his hair.

"I love you, Lily," he whispers. "More than you'll ever know. Please... don't disappear on me."

"That's not the plan, I promise."

But, uh... we just won't mention how things never seem to go according to plan for me.

Right.

"Time to go," I murmur, and he nods, hugging me tightly before turning me loose. I reach up as he rises to his full height, head almost touching the ceiling, and run my thumb over his lower lip. "Whatever happens, I want you to know... this is real." I take his hand, pressing it to my belly, covering the growing roundness inside. "And it's what I wanted." I take a deep breath. "Don't let go."

He kisses me fiercely then, pulling me tightly against him, and I sway, but he's drawing back before I can properly respond. "Never, love. Not as long as I draw breath," he promises, the backs of his fingers trailing down my cheek.

No more delay.

I pick up my pack, then open the aravel door and step out into the cold sunlight of mid-morning to find Junar, Airadan, Marethari, and Merrill standing there waiting for us, Ponka slouching insolently in front of the door. He looks up and grins as I notice him, and I can't help but smile back.

"Let's go," Airadan says gruffly, and I nod, falling in next to Junar as we all move into the woods.

We follow a winding route that clearly takes into account landmarks rather than definite direction, and finally come to a clearing where a sapling grows in a circle of large, white stones. Large enough to be crushingly heavy for a strong man, but just small enough that it could be carried. And probably by one, in particular.

I stop at the edge, staring in abject terror at the small mound not fifty feet away, and the little tree planted on it.

_He built this here. A monument to my loss._

No, please, I can't look at that right now. That's not why I'm here.

_Moment of truth. Time to see what comes._

Gods help me.


	39. Rattling Bones

I stand long enough at the edge of the circle of stones that Junar comes up on my left, right next to me, regarding the little tree in silent solidarity. After a moment, I look at him, but his face is impassive. No one can help me, here. I just need to move forward, and take what comes.

Heart in my throat, I cross the line of stones and move toward the tree, one hesitant step at a time. My feet crunch in the snow, loud in the silence of the wood, my prints the only thing to disturb the perfect circle of white. I'm not sure what I'm expecting, but nothing happens as I kneel on the ground next to the mound. I've never been comfortable walking over a grave, and this time is no exception. Under this hump of earth is a body I inhabited, however briefly, a life I only half-led, only half-owned, and a light I snuffed without meaning to.

She belonged to herself just as much as she did to me, and I was her, and I don't know. All this back-and-forth is soul-wearying. Reaching out with trembling hand, I touch a branch with one finger, then rest my palm against the slender trunk, but nothing happens.

How do I reach her?

How did I ever reach her?

I shrug off my pack, pulling out both of the journals; I didn't dare trust them to shipping, of course. Hers is wrapped in a tunic, because I didn't want to touch it by accident. It occurs to me that they've never touched each other, either, and I wonder whether that's significant. I have no idea what to do.

I lay both of them down, keeping the tunic underneath to protect from the snow, then shove my pack aside, far from me, just in case... I don't know. Something catches fire? I have no idea.

I hear someone make a small sound when I unwrap Mahariel's journal. Nothing happens, so I put mine on top of it. Still nothing. I chew at my lip for a moment, thinking furiously.

Clearing the snow away from the ground takes a bit more effort, but I soon have a bare patch of earth. Clearly having my hands on the ground over her body doesn't do anything, so I pick up the tunic with the journals on it and move it to the naked dirt. After a moment, I take the tunic away, letting the books slide to the ground.

Ah, hell.

I'm going to have to touch it, after all.

I lay one hand against my journal, then hesitate, having to brace myself and squeeze my eyes tightly shut before touching the worn leather of Mahariel's. There is a flash of light that burns through my eyelids, the smell of ozone and rotted flesh, a churning in my stomach and that shivering dust bursting out of my skin all at once, so hard it feels as though I should be bleeding from every pore. My soft cry of pained surprise is already too late to catch the fleeting feeling.

"So you've come." A woman's voice, behind me, and my eyes pop open of their own accord.

The scene is the same, more or less, but the tree is almost transparent and the books are glowing purple, the edges of the white rocks are fuzzy and indistinct, some of the floating in the still, stale air, no hint of snow.

I stand up and turn around slowly, all my small hairs standing on end. I have that scary, staticky feeling that horror movies strive for, right before the bogey man jumps out, and it's not fun in the slightest. You never want to actually be _in_ the horror movie.

Standing behind me, is... _me_.

Mahariel.

Her face is tattooed, but her eye sockets are hollow and black, her skin pale as death. She wears Dalish hunting leathers, but is barefooted. Her hair stirs and moves in a wind I do not feel, and standing in front of her makes me shiver. She's so cold she radiates, and sometimes she's transparent.

The deathly spectre of myself is a terrifying creature, and I don't like her smile, not at all.

"Um... hi," I say cautiously, and she sort of... _darts_ toward me. I mean, she's walking, but her footstep doesn't quite match up with the distance she travels, it's all jerky like a marionette, and it's almost like she's blinking in and out of existence sometimes. It takes everything I have to not move, to not run screaming like a fool because she looks and moves like an _onryo_, and as far as I'm concerned, the Japanese have the scariest ghosts ever.

"Do I frighten you?" she asks, and her voice is hollow, sounding like there's more than one of her, that she's shouting from a great distance.

I nod, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and swallow hard.

"Good," she says flatly, making my breath stutter.

How could this be me? Am I really so cold?

"I felt a hollowness," she says, circling me slowly, and I turn to keep an eye on her. "Always, an aching hole, even before the Taint. Tried to fill it up with family, with love, but it was taken by the mirror. Tried to fill it up with duty, with desire and passion, but it was taken by the Blight. Taken, taken, taken... And who do you think you are, standing in my place, wearing my face like a _shem_?"

"The answer to where the hollowness came from," I say, feeling horrible and lost. She hates me.

"And rightly so," she says, startling and shaming me as she comes to a halt across from me. "You've taken everything. It sickens me, the ways in which you are so different. Where is my Sunlight? Hm? You swore that your love for him was as great as mine, and you died for it, the same as me. And now where is he? With the Crows! Why, for the love of the Creators, did you not _stop him_?"

She is shouting at me at the last, her dead eyelessness scaring the shit out of me as she leans in too closely, and I smell the morbid-sweet stench of decay on her breath.

"There _was_ no stopping him!" I shout back despite my terror, tears springing to my eyes at this verbal slap in the face. "The Crows came after _us_! I _did_ what needed doing - I brought him back - despite the cost. I tried to protect him, but there was only so much I could do, because _I'm not you_. I tried, oh, I tried to be, and I did a lot, but it was not enough, and it would never _be_ enough, because we couldn't run and the Crows don't give up. Once they knew we were there, it was only a matter of time. There was nothing I could do, and then he abandoned me."

"He would never abandon me," she hisses, and I bow my head.

"I know. But like I said, I'm not you. You were me."

This stops her, and when I look up, she is standing there motionless, looking off into the distance, and the expression on her face is so lost, so desolate. "The one thing that mattered enough to move worlds for, and you let it slip through your fingers."

"I have a stable life," I protest. "I'm productive and good at my work, I have friends, and I'm happy. I don't have to worry about being poisoned or people trying to kill me while I sleep. You were dying of the Taint, and free to live and love recklessly. I'm not."

"You think my life didn't matter to me? That I didn't watch Riordan fall and despair the very hour? That there would never be another round of cards, another bottle of wine, another kiss, another night of bliss, another dawn in the arms of my love, no matter how well I fought that day? Did you not despair that very moment yourself, and for the very same reasons? I was you! I _am_ you! Yet, I would _never_-" Her mouth twists as her eyes drop to my belly, and I cover it with my hands.

"I know. But I would, because I value peace, and a safe home. You came from that; it was easy to take for granted. I don't. Every moment of silence, of freedom, of softness and solace, is golden and precious. Once we got off the boat... Zev was not the one who gave those things to me."

"You didn't give him enough time, then. He would do _anything_ for me, as I would for him. As you should have. He would have found a way to make it right."

"He left me, Mahariel, because _he_ didn't believe he could. _He_ left _me_. He walked away, and he left me there thinking that he believed me unfaithful for over a year before he finally told me he did it for my own good. He never spoke to me, never gave me the option, never let me even _try_ to keep him. _He left me._ And the only reason I know what happened is because we almost died and I made him show up to talk to me. He would never have told me, otherwise. I didn't just _dump him_. I would never have-" I break off, watching the tear that just fell out of my eye roll down _her_ cheek. "If I could-"

"You still have time to make it right. You still breathe," she says, and I grimace, shaking my head.

"I can't. It's too late. It was too late by the time he told me. Besides... He meant for this to happen."

She hisses again, baring her teeth, and I step back. "_Knowing_ something will happen, and _wanting_ it to, are two different things!"

"Well I didn't have you here to offer me the options and see things from different angles, okay‽" I snap. "He's always been an emotional minefield, and how was I supposed to know what he was up to? He's about as transparent as mud, when he wants to be!" I swallow hard and glance away. "But... I tried. I tried so hard. I'm sorry."

There is a silence, and when I look up, she has covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking. I know how she feels, and the sound of crying echoes as though there is more than one voice mourning the loss of what brought us here in the first place. One of them is weeping, and the other is screaming. It tears at my heart, tugging on the line that connects me to Antiva.

"Please, forgive me... All I ever wanted was to be loved for who I am, to not have to strive to measure up and be good enough. I never had that with Zevran... only with Alistair."

She drops her hands, looking up at me, lip curled. "You don't understand. You never felt it, not like I did. You never knew him the way I did," she says, and her voice is fierce, but resigned.

"I wanted to," I whisper helplessly. "I tried to."

"And so now what? Traded all for the mundane lot of a wife, a mother? Second best behind a man in command?" she demands, and I set my jaw.

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to be part of a family, wanting to start my own, wanting to be married and have children, wanting to be _safe_. I don't want to be in command of anyone but myself, because gods know that's hard enough. Standing beside him doesn't make me lesser. Letting him protect me when he's the one who knows how to swing a sword doesn't make me lesser. It makes me capable of seeing my limitations and ready to accept the strengths of the people around me. The only one here looking down on me for this is _you_," I defend, but she gives me that death's head grin again, and laughs.

"And I'm you," she says, simply.

It's true. I do judge myself for this... but I always judge myself harshly, no matter what I do. I've played the rough hand I was dealt, despite the fact that somehow I've been the dealer the entire time.

"I'm tired of existential bullshit and identity crises," I tell her, abruptly and keenly feeling my weariness. "I want things to go back to simple. I want to be able to sleep and just have the ordinary sorts of nightmares that I ought to have, after a life like mine. I want to be done with magic and avatars and heartache and wandering all over the place just looking for a way to be a complete person. Can we stop this now? Can we just... be?"

She stands there, a sort of motionless only a being like her could achieve, reminding me rather clearly that I'm looking at a dead woman.

"I hate you," she says, and I shrug.

"You're me. Of course you do."

Another pause.

"I don't know how to heal this," she says.

"Me either."

"Our will moved worlds," she says.

I take a deep breath, then shake my head. "You know, I don't think it did. I think it was just enough to move one person."

"That was outward focus."

"Hmm... true. I've been accused of having too much of that, and yet still being too inwardly focused, as well. Not sure what to make of that."

"Only worried about pleasing others, and whether or not you're a good person," she says, and I frown.

"Well, but no, because I've been up to all sorts of other things as well, you know." I pause, looking at her carefully. "You sound like Mom."

She shrugs. "I'm you."

"Only dead," I say, and she shrugs again. "How do we do this? I want to be finished with it. I want to sleep. I want to go home to Antiva, and try to not make a mess of my life."

"You have to let me in, somehow," she says, and I groan, hanging my head.

"Ah, man, seriously? After all that, you start talking like a demon?" I push my hands through my hair, sighing heavily, feeling defeated. "And I thought I was getting somewhere, too."

"I'm a piece of your soul," she argues. "I can't do anything without... somehow..." She gestures vaguely toward my chest, and my lip curls.

"Well... I'm not going to give you permission. You shouldn't need an invitation to walk into your own home."

She pauses, tilting her head at a decidedly odd and creepy angle, then slowly moves toward me.

I swallow hard, every instinct in me screaming that I should turn and run, because she's dead, she's a ghost, and there's a brokenness in the way she moves, but she's me, and I need this. I need this to happen. I'm so tired.

"I'm so sorry, Mahariel," I admit miserably, shaking my head.

"There are no happy endings. Every end carries its sorrow," she whispers, sounding like wind rattling through a graveyard, and holds out her arms. "So let us make another ending."

As she draws nearer, the flickering visage of who she was in life becomes clearer to me. It's like looking into a mirror, my eyes looking back at me. She stops, right in front of me, so close we're almost touching. Everything is cold as ice, a chill wind freezing my cheeks as I look at my alter ego from just inches apart, a black swirl of watered ink energy rippling between us.

At my breast, my spiral heats, and I hope whatever happens next, it means I'm headed in the right direction.

Reaching out, the adrenaline of terror nearly overwhelming, I slowly put my arms around Mahariel. To my surprise, she actually has some substance, though not entirely solid, and she reaches up, cupping my cheek as everything gets brighter and brighter. In the moment before I'm blinded, she leans forward and kisses me; her lips disintegrate into cloud not a second later.

_-my arms don't quite fit around her head, and I kick my feet because it feels like I'm flying, all the bright colours of the people as the landships sway through the trees-_

-by the big fire, and everyone sings the same song, so proud that I remember all the words this time, that nod from the Keeper swells my heart-

-forest, Tamlen and Junar laughing behind me, never quite as fast as me-

-and Maren stole my jam-cake!" I shout, the final straw. Just this morning she'd pulled both of my pigtails and rubbed dirt on my new-

-to Ashalle, drying my tears and pressing a cloth to my skinned knee-

-seven small cakes, all mine, for my naming day-

-just as fierce as you!" I shout, at Junar. "See if I'm not!" and I leap on him. Over we go, backward down the hill, toward the brambles, and he just screams, so funny, so I stop us before we reach it, and-

-baby crying in the darkness, another one abandoned for us to find-

-and indigo of a perfect sunset from the scarp near the barren hill, where the rabbits have been so plentiful, we'll surely eat well for-

-strength in his wrists as he pins my shoulders and the needles bite into my eyelid-

-bottle of honey wine at the top of the cliff, stars glittering and falling across the sky, and he tells me the worst joke-

-stalking along very, very quietly, stony ground under my feet, the deer entirely unknowing, never hearing me as I leap-

-as much supplies from the abandoned caravan as we can carry, heavy basket upon my back, so proud to be staggering beside the other hunters, knowing that the clan will-

-whispers in my ear, "Bond with me, Lily," and how can I say no to him, never, oh Creators, never let me go-

-presses me against the tree as he kisses me heatedly, his perfect hands at my waist, the way he fits against me, Creators yes, oh the strength in his shoulders and the smell of sweetgrass on his neck as I-

-and apples, he brought me apples. His smile is knowing as he leans in closer, "Ah, but I never said they were free," he murmurs, his lips brushing mine as I exhale sharply, meeting him-

-soon, so soon. I saw the dress Ashalle was shaking out, heavy pale green and cream silk, the embroidery-

-the certain knowledge that I was too late, trying to convince myself that there was no stopping him, even as they send me away-

-weeping on the ground with a bottle in my hand, Creators, Tamlen, I should have died next to you-

-blackness and foul stenches and feral growling and the siren song, oh-

-but I'm not yours to protect!" I shout at Alistair. "I can stand on my own and this is my life to defend, my right to-

-never touched me with intent before, and I'm so nervous, heart fluttering as he draws nearer; The heat and promise in his amber eyes makes me shiver, raising gooseflesh as his hands ghost up my arms and-

-Creators, another dragon; Zev, Alistair, Wynne. My love, we'll flank; go get the bitch, Alistair, into the fray!-

-staring down these noble shems and they have no idea what is actually going on out there, so self absorbed-

-blood and bone and the rise and fall of my daggers-

-crackle of the dying fire, and he tells me secrets of his past. The Qunari make so little sense to me, this strange killer with his soul trapped in an object-

-barefoot and staggering back into the camp, "You were dreaming again," he says, but there's no time, "We're not alone!" as they come boiling out of the darkness, rabid and corrupt-

-sings for us, her clear voice ringing in the empty air-

-have just one moment of quiet, just one," and he brushes my hair off the side of my neck, so casually, but the warmth of his breath-

-curious look on her face when I call her my friend, and my heart goes out to her-

-the coffee from the fire and opened the tent, the smell pulling him from sleep-

-in the endless stone, losing my way time and time again, nothing growing, no light, only my Sunlight, only one memory of air-

-laughs, smelling like ale and onion breath, disgusting, but no better ally when-

-slide of his skin against mine, wrapping us in shadows, Creators, please, let me forget, drown me in gold and amber-

-Morrigan, how could you, Creators, my heart, I trusted you, I trusted you-

-no, no, no it isn't, it isn't him, that's not Riordan, no, no it can't be, Creators, please, no-

-ripping through me like shards of glass, shredding, and I know, I know why, and it's so beautiful and terrifying-

-Creators... for you, emma sa'lath, every agony, I lay down my life for every precious second, live, live, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, forgive me, forgive...

The tumble of images, emotions, and sensations stops abruptly, leaving me reeling. My mind is empty and yawning like an old cave, and I put my hands to my head. Blackness floods my perceptions, darkening my eyes, and I remember from the Incident, from That Night, what that pit means.

Distantly, I feel something that might be me laying on my back all of a sudden, but I'm not really sure. A heavy thrum runs through me, that bass note with the shivering dust radiating from it, a tug on the very essence of my being; I cannot help but answer its call. It is the only thing that makes sense, the only thing that will give me air, it is the hand pulling me from the sea, and I swim toward it, let it pull me upward.

I smell leather and clove, and draw breath because of it.

I feel silken hair across my cheek, and open my eyes because of it.

The faces above me are a jarring shock that nearly stops my heart. Gone is my Sunlight, lost as though he'd never been. Merrill and Marethari look down at me, their lips moving, though I cannot grasp any meaning. Gradually, my senses return, and I begin to feel the snow beneath me, the hardness of the ground, the stiffness in my joints. I crawl to my feet, letting Merrill help me, still not really able to focus on what she's saying.

Looking down at myself, it takes me a moment to understand where I am, who I am, what I'm doing. My mind is filled with the weight of two lifetimes, all the memories and thoughts jumbled together, struggling to coexist. Some primitive part of my brain registers the need to carry books, and I turn back, stumbling and falling to my knees. I pick them up, cradle them to my breast. The leather, the paper, they are the weight of my life, words written in ink and blood, in joy and despair, with purpose and belief.

The world sways crazily as I stumble back to the camp, following everyone else. I can't speak, can barely understand the words spoken around me. I find myself sitting next to a fire, staring into the flames as a cup is pressed into my hands. I drink the bitter-sweet liquid, not recognising the flavour.

_Verbena, rose hip, elfroot, honey, pear brandy_

That would be Merrill, then. Marethari wouldn't have put in the brandy.

Slowly, my mind settles, and I am able to hear and understand what is going on around me once more. There is a general hush about the camp that shouldn't be present at this time of day. Ponka and Junar sit on either side of me. Looking behind me, I see Marethari a little way off, speaking with Airadan, Fenarel, and Rafflin. Alistair leans against a tree, looking pensive and trying to be unobtrusive. I'm sure he doesn't feel comfortable here... not because of the company, but because he's self-conscious enough to be worried that he'll be impolite by mistake.

I'm suddenly ravenously hungry, and have to swallow hard as this is followed by a wave of nausea. "Wow, uhm...Hey, Junar," I murmur, bumping him with my elbow and leaning closer to drop my voice a bit. "Did Ashalle put up any berry loaf this year?"

He stares at me, hesitating for just a second, then shakes his head, blinking. "W- Uh, you know, I think she did. Why, you want me to see if I can get you some?"

"Gods, yes, and- Oh! And if Maren made any cherry jam? I've got some sour wheat bread and Redcliffe cheese, and I might even be persuaded to share some of my dried apples," I wheedle, and he grins, recognising the familiar in me, even as he still finds it disconcerting. That's okay; so do I.

Through the course of the day, so many people talk to me, one by one, in some silent accord as to who will go next. I am uncomfortable being the centre of attention, but I have come to accept that things are very different for me than they are for your average person. Crossing realities was bound to have consequences. I speak as the person I am, a product of where I've come from, coloured by the newfound alternate history that is now as real to me as my original timeline.

We talk well into the night: They tell me of all the changes in the clan, how they weathered the Blight. They tell me of the time that Zev spent among them, making me weep, but they do not spare me, though they try to be gentle. Part of the Way is that you hear every story, mark every turning, so we all share the same history, no matter what pain the memories may carry.

I tell them as much as I can remember about the things I did when I left them, how I felt and how I fought, how I lived, how I loved, how I died. As I tell them, they fall like marbles through my fingers, fade away like old paint, ghosting into cobwebs on the edges of my mind's attic. I paraphrase my other life, sketching it in broad sweeps of charcoal, and how I came to be Lily on Thedas, using the metaphors of waking dreams and the pane of glass. This, too, is a dead life, and it settles in the attic as a heavy layer of dust. I close the door on it as I tell about the Crows, the demon, the dreams, and what led me back to the forest.

I listen then, as Triss and Junar tell of finding us in the darkness, the scout from another clan who alerted them to our presence before we were visible, and how Junar came to determine that however odd the situation is, I'm not lying. Then everyone turns to Marethari waiting for her to tell of what she witnessed at the grave. These are stories that the whole clan has heard bits and pieces of, all through the day, but which haven't been formally presented; this is the way the clan will remember these events, from now on. Everyone with the same story.

"I was not at first convinced that what she said was true. It is hard to believe, a strange impossibility that defies reason, yet I cannot deny what I have seen and heard since she walked into my aravel last night. She explained a part of the story you have already heard, and then was too weary to remain awake, despite that she was sitting up. I had expected requests for goods, for some kind of wealth in her name... Indeed, I was extremely wary up to the very last, when I realised all she would ask of me was to visit her grave." Marethari pauses for effect as everyone leans in unconsciously.

"Junar, Airadan, Merrill, and myself accompanied the humans to the place where Lily was buried. I still had my doubts, even then. She sat in the snow next to the sapling, then pulled out two books. One many of you would recognise as Lily's book, the other strangely painted with a picture of a lily on the front. She moved them about, clearing snow away from the ground, then placed a hand on each. A bright light burst from between her hands, blinding me for a moment.

"When I could see again, Lily - our Lily - was standing in the circle near her." Marethari gestures to me, and everyone turns to look. I bow my head under the momentary attention, until she continues. "She was ghostly, and a terrible thing to behold. I feared demon presence, but felt no evil, even though the veil was torn. They spoke at length, a conversation I'm sure she would not wish me to repeat." She smiles as she catches my nod. "However, what was spoken there between them left no doubts in my mind as to who she is, truly. They embraced then, and her ghost disintegrated into tiny motes of light that covered her before winking out.

"A glow began in her eyes the moment the ghost fell apart, only increasing with every spark that was snuffed. She stood there for long minutes as the veil slowly repaired itself, until finally the light went out in an instant. She swayed and fell, but revived when Merrill and I bent over her. As you all no doubt witnessed, it took her quite a while to come around, and I suppose it is no surprise, considering what has occurred."

It's not long after that when Alistair and I are shown back to the aravel we occupied last night, and I sink into sweet oblivion wrapped securely in his arms. For the first time in a very, very long time, I have no dreams at all.

For my part, I'm grateful that the clan is understanding enough to have come up with a plan: they must tell the story, but they will leave out mention of me being an actual presence in the now, so that no-one will come looking for me, and have agreed to speak of me only as 'Lily's ghost'.

Though I'm sure we could stay, there is a sense of wrongness about my presence here, an awkwardness that can only be assuaged by my leaving. So though the clan are hospitable and kind to us, we take our leave in the morning. Junar is quick to volunteer when Marethari asks for someone to lead us out of the wood, and we set off west through hills and cliffs, climbing out of the forest as we leave by a different route than we came. Junar stops at the top of a ridge that overlooks a river, and the Imperial Highway on the other side.

"This is as far as I go," he says, looking over at me. A heavy weight of sadness rests in his eyes, hurting me.

_"Abelas, lethallin,"_ I murmur, reaching up to touch his shoulder. "I never meant to make you mourn twice."

He shakes his head, looking down at the ground for a moment, and I see his jaw flex as he swallows. "No... Don't be sorry. I'm glad you came back... even if you are a _shem_," he says, elbowing me, trying to be funny, and I smile.

"I'm glad you don't hold it against me." I hesitate, but it's likely I'll never see him again. "Listen, Junar... there's something you need to know. I... I did actually find Tamlen. Not in the Fade. Here. In the foothills of the Frostbacks, on my way up to Orzammar, he-" Unexpectedly, I choke on a well of emotion, remembering how my hands had blistered and bled as I struggled to dig his grave, how Zev had finally pulled the shovel from my hands and gone to work himself, while I sat on the side of the grave and wept like a child. I close my eyes, trying to will it away, but a tear slips down my cheek anyway.

"I know," he says softly, and I blink.

"I didn't have a sapling," I say helplessly, and he nods.

"I know," he repeats, then sighs. "Zevran told me of this, while he was here. When he left, I went there and made it right. I found it, right where he said it would be: through the copse of ash trees, up a barren hill, at the base of the sundered cliff, by the waterfall with five fingers."

I stare at him, surprised and tongue-tied.

Before I can react, he grabs me and pulls me into a fierce hug, surprising me again, and I squeak. He laughs, squeezing me tighter, and rests his chin on my shoulder for a moment before turning me loose.

"What's funny?" I ask, mystified, and he laughs again.

"You. You still squeak." I blush and he grins, but it fades.

"Thank you," I say softly. "For Tamlen... for everything. You were my best friend. I'll never forget you."

He gives me a lop-sided smile. "I couldn't ever forget you, Lily. Take care of yourself. I hope that... wherever you go from here... you're happy. _Dareth shiral, lethallan._"

"_Dareth shiral,_ Junar. Be well."

I look back when I reach the bottom of the hill, but he's already gone.

The snow has developed an icy crust that crunches under my feet, and since it's at least ankle-deep in a lot of places, this makes for almost as difficult as the mud, particularly when the crust is hard enough that I can't actually punch through it before I fall, even with my stompers on. I try to keep to the path that Alistair blazes, but it's slow going for all of us. We haven't got nearly as far as I'd like by the time we have to stop; it's clear that there haven't been any travellers for days.

"No one else is mad enough to be travelling in this weather," Alistair grouses when I mention it, and I bow my head.

"I'm sorry... This was never my idea of a good plan, it was just what needed to be done."

"And what now?" he asks, and I blink.

"What do you mean, 'what now'? We're going to Amaranthine, right? I don't want to be in Denerim, under Anora's eye, do you?" He stops and looks at me for so long, I feel my brow furrow. "What?" He doesn't answer for another moment, then goes back to setting up the tent.

His voice is completely normal when he speaks, as though things aren't suddenly weird and awkward for no apparent reason. "It would probably be best, yes. And really, all the better to ensure we catch the first messenger boat back to Antiva."

"Right, I was thinking the same thing," I say, nodding. Now that I've melted a space for it, I set about making a campfire out of my flaming dagger and a few stones. I learnt in the Frostbacks that laying the dagger across two stones, then setting four more around it to hold up a pan or soup pot, works pretty well, as long as you can cook whatever it is one-handed.

I catch Alistair giving me that look again, as I glance up from my work.

"What?" I ask again. "Why do you keep looking at me like that?"

Yesterday was so draining, we didn't really have a chance to talk before we slept, and this morning, we only talked long enough to agree we ought to leave.

"Why are you with me?" he asks abruptly, and I take a deep breath.

Again? This, again?

"Because I love you," I respond, not missing a beat.

"Hmm. But you feel guilty about it," he says, and I can feel my shoulders drop a bit. He was there for the argument. I am mortified by the fact that everyone saw and heard that.

No lies.

"Sometimes... yes," I admit.

"Why?"

I don't dare look up right now. HIs voice is so cold and flat.

"Because... oh, a lot of reasons. Because I didn't know I was treating you so poorly during the Blight, and now there's no fixing that, no matter how it breaks my heart. Because of the way things went between us at first, and how little I understood what was truly at stake. Because no matter how we are with each other, you still have that lost look about you that I can't seem to erase. Because sometimes it feels like no matter how much I give, no matter how I lay myself bare, nothing I could ever do would be enough to truly and completely convince you that I'm not going to abandon you at the first opportunity. Because we still can't shake the spectre of Zevran and Mahariel, and that is laying a gulf between us that I'm not sure how to cross." I sigh, slipping off my glove so I can push my hair back out of my face without rubbing soot on myself. I'm so tired. I guess travelling while growing a baby is harder work than it sounds like it ought to be. "Tell me what to do, tell me what to say, Alistair, because I don't know anymore."

He freezes, and so do I, when I see the look on his face. He's hard as stone as he looks at me, and I realise suddenly that this sentence is an exact repeat of his conversation with Mahariel... when she broke up with him. I take a quick breath, holding my hand out, feeling my eyes widen with shock.

"No! No-no-no-no- I didn't mean to parrot her. I mean something else entirely. Look, I'm not trying to just give up at the first sign of adversity. It may have scared the shit out of me at the time, but I did give my word in front of an entire freaking city full of people that I would have your back and be your woman, and I meant it. So I'm trying to say, I need you to relax a little, here. Have some faith. I just know that these are things we're going to have to fix, and I need you, honestly, to tell me how to do this. What am I not doing?"

A long silence ticks by, while he gets the tent staked down. "Do you know that I constantly live in his shadow?" he finally asks quietly.

"You live in your own light," I argue, shaking my head. "I have a past, Alistair. I wasn't a virgin when you met me, at any time. Mahariel only ever had two lovers, but I've had many, and Zevran isn't the only lover I've ever mourned the loss of."

_Despite the fact that it was our own personal cataclysm, and nothing even close to that has ever happened before. We'll skip that part._

Not helpful, Mahariel.

I shake my head again, then shrug. "I've got a lot of skeletons in my closet, and a lot of regret and guilt to go with each one. Does that change the way you see me? Does it change things between us, make it all a lie? You knew I wasn't a virgin when you kissed me in the hallway, when you took me to your bed. I stood in that chantry with the weight of all those things behind me and still took oaths on you, and I have our child, and I want us to go back to Antiva before it gets here, so I can make a cradle before I'm too fat to do anything.

"After that, I intend to hear the scampering of little feet up and down those corridors, and hopefully people will let me just carry on being the carpenter and not try to stuff me in a dress and make me do political things, because I hate that."

Alistair rises slowly, standing beside the tent, hazel eyes intense and unreadable. "But this happened after the chantry, and she knew that you regretted it, that you still want-"

I growl, actually baring my teeth at him, because this makes me so blindingly angry. "Then you were so busy listening for things that confirmed your fears that you didn't hear the things I said _defending us_. You might have noticed that I didn't just drop dead, right? Because that was a distinct possibility, actually. I felt it. But I'm stronger than that, and I fought to come back to _my life_."

_For him._

Shut up.

Alistair pauses, watching me for a moment, then comes to sit near me, and I fight not to set my jaw.

"You move differently," he says, completely changing direction, and I blink, thrown off.

"What?"

"You see, I can't help but notice: you walk like her now." Watching my hips again, I see. Do I walk differently? I didn't notice. "And you changed your grip on your dagger," he continues, before I can respond. I look down, and sure enough, now that he's pointed it out, I do hold it a little differently. "And this is the first time, actually, since we left Redcliffe, that you didn't even think about firewood." The flaming dagger trick. I didn't even think about it.

"Ahhhh... So you want to know how much of me has changed." I say, finally understanding. "I can't really tell you. Her life is... a second set of memories. As vivid and real as any I had before, and... maybe they will change my outlook a little bit. Maybe they already have, but it's not as if it's a story I didn't already know. I can't say I don't feel different, but... I'm still myself. Just... she was me, and... I don't know, all these things in my head... I'm her. We're the same person. We always have been. But she's _dead_, that's the pertinent thing, here. That part of me died, and it's a door that closed. I remember it, but it doesn't define me.

"I just know I had this thing, _with you_, and it was beautiful and bright and it shone, and somehow it was the only way I could breathe, and now-" I break off, closing my eyes. "I just want it to go back to that. I want to go home. Can we do that? Because I need that - now, more than ever." I open my eyes again, catching him looking so very vulnerable, and let my breath out in a puff of crystals in the chilly evening air. "You know, part of the reason I love you is that I don't have to constantly strive to measure up. I can just be, and that's enough. You're so focused on what you don't have - on the idea that we're nothing like me and him were - that you miss the point of what you do have: we're not _supposed_ to be like that. We're like _us_, and I couldn't have that with anyone but you."

Looking back down at the pan, I flip all the potatoes over, finding them nicely toasted, and dump them in a bowl for us to share. The flame on my dagger snuffs as soon as it hits the sheath, and I drop to the log beside Alistair, handing him a fork. Sighing heavily in the face of his continued remoteness, I set the bowl in his hands so that they're too busy to stop me when I seize his face and kiss him passionately, swaying against him. He responds instantly, setting aside the bowl to wrap his arms around me strongly and pull me into his lap with a soft groan. I can feel the tension flowing out of him, even through his armour, and pour so much of myself into it, my hands and breath are shaking as I finally draw back just far enough to rest my forehead against his.

"Wow," he whispers, and I giggle softly.

"Please believe me; nothing's changed." I give him a peck on the corner of his mouth as I draw back, settling in against his side and spearing a piece of potato with my own fork.

"Heeey!" he protests, and I look up. The sparkle of humour is back in his eyes, mischief in his smile, and I arch a brow.

"What?"

"Stealing my dinner?" he teases, and I laugh. There are enough homefries here to feed four normal people.

"Hey, I'm eating for two, now," I remind him, pointing my fork at him. "Your fault."

He laughs. "_My_ fault! Oh, of course, and there wasn't a certain lady begging me 'please' at the time, either."

"Of course not," I reply primly, but my blush proclaims the lie we both know I'm telling, and I giggle again. Thank the gods, we're back to normal. I hope it lasts.

As soon as I'm in the tent with my boots off, he's on me. There's a lot of buildup when armour has to come off before clothes, and a tent provides extremely limited wiggle room. Though our exhaustion and the desperation born of emotional upset conspire to make it brief, it is nonetheless passionate, and we fall asleep still tangled. Right where I want to be.

_Mostly._

Shut up.

When I next become aware of myself, I've been on a semi-lucid midnight ride with Nolan. We're in a car, cruising down the west coast freeway at 70, and it's been so long since I was in a car that it feels like flying. Dimly, I recall eating with him at Denny's, and him watching me with dark eyes, but it slips through my fingers like an eel.

"I feel lost," I say, shaking my head. Things are hazy, partially indistinct. "This is weird. I haven't been to Denny's in ages," I say, trying to remember what's strange about that.

"Good, keep going," he says, and it doesn't seem weird to me in the slightest that he can read my mind. Wait, I knew that about him. How do I know that? Wait, I'm not supposed to be asking questions.

That realisation makes me blink, and it's like a fog lifts; I suddenly understand where I am and what's going on.

"There you are," he says, smiling. "You were harder to wake this time," he tells me, then pauses. "That's good news," he adds.

"I don't understand."

"You're less solid," he says. "The trail is gone."

"So I'm no longer walking demon-bait," I say. Not a question.

"You've faded enough that you're almost back to your old self, so you're not likely to attract much attention, but... before you shifted worlds, if I tried to make you lucid, you'd wake up. You're still capable of it, but it's harder to reach you."

"You make that sound like a bad thing."

He shrugs noncommittally. "Well... it's not a bad thing, per se, but it is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, the only one likely to notice you now is me, but on the other, you're not as in control of where you are or what you're doing, so you're less likely to remember anything much when you wake."

"I don't want to forget! I've only been lucid since I got here!" I protest,

He frowns, then sighs. "I know. I wish I had better news, but I'm not in control of these things."

Nolan takes a right onto 101, downshifting, and I realise he's driving my truck.

"Wait a minute, we're-"

Nolan's eyes widen in panic. "SHH!" he hisses, hand snapping out to clap over my mouth. "Don't even think it!" Looking paranoid, he checks the rear-view mirror, but the closest headlights are far from us.

I close my eyes and start naming colours in my head, so I don't distract Nolan for a few moments, and after a bit, he relaxes.

"Look... I'm not supposed to be doing this. We do a lot of things we're not supposed to, you and I. Always have. That's why we're always running, why you've always needed protection. Because I'm- uh, what would you call it... a... a heretic? Iconoclast? Rebel? Yeah. All those things and more, besides. It's always been an issue that I prefer the company of a human, but they mostly left me alone because aww, isn't it cute, Nolan has a plaything. They don't get that you're a person, that we're both people, that neither of us is better than the other, just by virtue of where we live. They think of you as pawns or prey, and keep waiting for me to 'lose control' and eat you or something, try to take you over and burst out into your world." He shakes his head, lip curling in scorn.

"Your world might be more limited than this one, but the sentient races get to cross borders. Those of us who live here, can't. It's a trade-off. Awesome powers of probability, no chance to cross realms without tearing holes in things and destroying our minds, whereas you guys, limited scope in your own world, but amazing powers of imagination. When imagination and probability intersect, you get dreams. We can't exist without each other."

I focus on his face, listening, trying not to think about where we are or what might be going on outside of our conversation. Dark trees flash by the windows, the old growth of cedar, pine, and fir that I remember so well.

"So I see you've made peace with your other half," he says, when the silence stretches on, and I practically jump out of my skin, but I laugh.

"Peace. Hah. More like an armed standoff with mutually assured destruction, but close enough."

He snorts. "All right, but that's something, right? You're all in one piece now."

"I'm not so sure I like that, but if it keeps the demons off me, I'll learn to live with it."

Nolan nods. "Fair enough." I hear gravel crunching under the tires as he slows, pulling into someplace. He turns off the truck, then looks at me. "Listen, we're not supposed to be here. So don't ask any questions, don't think too hard, and don't name anyone. Okay?" I must look more than a little nervous, because his eyes become sympathetic, and he reaches out, setting a hand over mine.

"From now on, if you don't become lucid on your own, I may not be able to wake you. While you still have the ability, I wanted to bring you here, on the off-chance that you might remember, and have something to carry with you. This, right now, here, tonight, is real. I was able to pull strings because you've just absorbed Mahariel, and your soul looks both alive and dead at the same time. The living is devouring the dead, making it part of you, but it's made you nebulous enough that I can do this, just once. Just once." He worries at his lower lip. "I hope this is the right thing."

"You're worried that it isn't," I observe, and he nods.

"I... There's..." This is the first time I've seen Nolan truly at a loss for words, and he finally just shakes his head. "I can't warn you ahead of time, or it'll break, and we'll be noticed. It's technically the sort of dream you might have anyway, so it shouldn't attract any attention, as long as you're not questioning things. I just..." He looks like there's so much more he wants to say, pressing his lips together tightly, then just shakes his head. "No questions," he reminds me, then hands me the keys. "Better take the groceries in," he says, and my truck door pops open.

I blink, looking down, and there is a bag in my arms. Artichokes, couscous, dried fruit, a bottle of wine. Looking up, my heart stops at the sight of my house, oh, but there are different curtains on the window, and a different couch, something of a Moroccan touch-

"Breathe," Nolan says, voice holding a warning note. "Flow like water, or it breaks," he says, then gives my hip a gentle push to urge me out of the truck.

I hop down, noticing that I'm wearing a dark blue velvet dress, my favourite, my silver chain belt, things I left long behind-

"Stop thinking!" Nolan says desperately, and I take a deep breath.

I walk forward, climb the steps, and open the door, normal as anything, despite how my heart hammers. I hang my keys by the door as I kick it shut, then turn and head for the kitchen. Standing at my stove is a man with very long, pale blond hair. My feet carry me forward of their own accord, my arms setting down the bag.

"Ah, _cara_, you are back," he says, turning, and those golden eyes pin me to the spot. "You did not forget the wine, I see," he says, smiling, and oh, oh my heart. His smile fades a bit, and he turns off the stove, setting down the spatula. I can't move. He's truly frowning now. _"Cara? Cosa c'e'?"_ he asks, and I can't say, I can't tell him what's wrong, because whatever this is, I need to stop thinking.

So I step back, letting events carry me where they will, and for just one, strange and precious moment, there is a fairy-tale-perfect dream of the ocean, and my home, and a peace I've never known.

I wake in the grey light of barely-morning with the smell of driftwood in my nose, blinking at the canvas of the tent above me. Alistair sits up beside me, and I stare at him with wide eyes, jarred and disconcerted, making my stomach clench. He rubs his face with both hands, then looks down at me, brow immediately furrowing.

"What? Are you all right?" he asks, and this is when I notice he's shirtless and blush to my roots.

Wait, I knew that. I blink, feeling my own forehead wrinkle. He turns to face me more fully, reaching out to brush the hair away from my cheek as my mind firmly cements itself in the here-and-now.

"That is the oddest series of expressions I've ever seen cross your face. What could you have been dreaming about, I wonder," he murmurs, and I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

In this one, terrible instant, I realise I've forgotten.

Somehow, that's the worst crime ever.

"I... don't know..." I say slowly, struggling to recall. "But... I was at the ocean; I felt such peace... and... I don't know. It was really important; I'm forgetting something really, really important... There's just this... terrible, aching sense of melancholy... and I woke up confused about where I am." I rub my face with my hands, then shake my head. The motion makes me seasick, and I have to scramble to get out of the tent in time to not make a mess.

Oh yes, there's no doubt about where I am.

Alistair never brings up Mahariel again, all the long slogging way back to Amaranthine, for which I am supremely grateful. If I dream, I don't recall much, and that's both reassuring and unsettling, after becoming accustomed to lucid dreaming. On the other hand, I suppose it means that I don't have to worry about what's going on in the Fade anymore, and that's a blessing.

I am more sick with every passing day, scaring Alistair with how little I keep down, with how often we have to stop. It takes us twice as long to get there as it should have, and I finally stagger into the courtyard of Vigil's keep a little over two weeks after leaving the Brecilian. If it hadn't been for Ponka's hunting and Alistair's know-how when it comes to identifying edible plants, we would have starved. I am _so_ glad I gave him a random point in herbalism _taught him how to find tubers in the snow_.

Yes, yes. Mahariel's knowledge may pop its head up from time to time, but my memories aren't reliable enough for me to actually apply them much. We're more... _we_, than we ever were, but I'm still me and she's still her. The dividing line emotionally and mentally has become very blurry, but I know who I am, and I still don't agree with everything she did, but... they're within the range of my capabilities, choices I might have made. After all, hindsight is everything.

I see now, how she was with Alistair, why she treated him the way she did. He didn't say a bloody thing about it, that's why. She never knew about the way he bruised, going up the mountain with all that equipment. Disingenuous of him to let me think I'd been cruel and neglectful of him, when it was really his pride that got in the way... just as I knew when I snapped at him, that first night he prodded me over it, before I ever lost Zevran, but I never imagined how deep that rabbit hole went.

Never mind; it doesn't matter now. Now that I'm not trying to fight beside him, it's a non-issue. We have different skill-sets; there's no overlap and less opportunity for us to clash.

Winter passes so slowly, dragging by in endlessly alternating snow, sleet, and freezing rain - and oh yes, there is a difference. Sleet is slushy snow; freezing rain encases the world in ice, making deadly icicles that fall on people and hurt or kill them and collapse unsteady roofs.

To alleviate the boredom, I introduce chess, rummy, and cribbage - I figure it's only fair that the Ferelden Wardens get the games, as well. Besides, I need something to fill the time while I lay about and try not to retch. Nothing Velanna gives me alleviates the urge, and I drop weight over the time we spend there.

At Alistair's insistence, I sit with Velanna every day, trying to do something with the breath of magic that I have, but I can't focus well enough, and after a time, she throws her hands up and declares it a lost cause. Alistair finds this odd, so he comes in one day to watch as I sit there and try to summon up something, anything.

"Do that thing where you glow," he says, and I open my eyes to look up at him.

"I'm not glowing?"

He blinks. "Did you think you were?"

"Uhm... I was doing the same thing I always do when people say I've started glowing." We stare at each other a moment, then I take a breath, shrugging. "I don't know what to say."

Velanna looks at me critically, eyes narrowing. "Who told you that you had magic?"

"Alistair and Anders."

Her brow furrows with confusion as she looks at me harder, her gaze unfocusing and looking through me for a moment before she shakes her head. "As far as I can tell, you don't have any more magic than the next person. You're not a mage."

"What?" Alistair asks with a start, then looks back at me. "No, but- Yes, yes she is, because I was able to take her mana in Amaranthine. If she weren't a mage, I couldn't have done that," he protests, and Velanna shrugs.

"I can only tell you what I see," she says, slightly testy.

Alistair holds his hand out toward me, and when nothing happens, his eyes widen with surprise. "I can't do it, now!" he says, and Velanna nods.

"That's because she's not a mage," she repeats.

Alistair and I stare at each other in surprised silence for a couple of heartbeats, before he grins.

"Maybe... maybe it was connected to the split," I say, and he rubs his lower lip, considering.

"Possibly... I can't think of any other reason it would suddenly be gone like that - that just doesn't happen. Either you're a mage, or you aren't. There isn't any in-between."

"Yeah, well. You could say that about being dead, too," I remark, making both of them shift uncomfortably, but it's true.

As soon as the ice in the cove breaks, messenger ships begin showing up in the port. I see them, when I'm sitting on the balcony, but we're still here. On the third day, I confront Alistair about it.

"I'm afraid to travel, with you in this state," he finally admits, and I frown.

"We need to get back, though. It's not like we can stay until the baby's born. We have to go sometime, and we said we'd be back with the first ships. We need to go."

Agitated, he runs a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth a few times, then nods decisively. "Right. You're right." Without another word, he grabs his cloak, kisses me on the forehead, and leaves.

We're pulling out of the harbour before lunch, and I breathe just a little bit easier, feeling the ocean under my feet. Being inland was driving me stir-crazy. The ocean not only calms my soul, putting Mahariel and I at peace for a time, but also nearly erases my morning sickness.

Alistair is very surprised, but somehow, it seems right to me.

"Born under the sign of the fish, what can I say?" I laugh.

As much as I had been grateful for leaving Antiva, I'm glad to be shut of Ferelden, and my heart fairly soars to know I'm returning.

And deep within me, spinning quietly, a spool is gathering up the thread.


	40. Squandered Time

_A/N: okay, here we go. one day early, just for you, because i love you guys. here's the last chapter... don't lose heart; there's an epilogue, and i'll post that next._

It's still very early in the season, so time on the messenger boat to Antiva goes quickly, as we all have to work together, even the passengers, to keep the boat from capsizing on more than one occasion. We seem to hit every squall on the ocean.

"Just our bad luck," the captain says. "Changed tack more than once to try to avoid them, but the sea does what she will."

My morning sickness passes entirely as my belly develops a noticeable curve that Alistair practically worships, and my breasts have definitely got bigger, much to my surprise and his delight. Our last week on the ship, I begin to feel a tiny flutter from time to time, the stirring of the burgeoning life within me. It's too small for Alistair to feel, but once he realises that the baby's big enough for _me_to feel, he gets paranoid that sex will be a problem for it.

I am _so_glad I've got a good grasp of female anatomy, because at this stage, I'm frequently antsy with need, so if he cuts me off, we'll have problems. Fortunately, once I've explained how it really works, and assured him that I know this because of the things I learnt on my own world, he relaxes, and the dust settles.

The world has been getting warmer as we travel north, and I'm glad to arrive in places not frozen. We port in Antiva City with the sea choppy and angry, looking like it's thinking of thrashing about again, but the wind is blowing down from the north, and it's unlikely to be much more than a shower.

Alistair sets our trunks on the dock and goes in search of a porter to help him carry them; Ponka and I sit down on their tops, while I munch on some dried apples. It doesn't take him long to return, and the crisp scent in the air is unmistakable as we follow the street upward. This, this is home. And I'm back. A shadow that had silently grown over my heart, unbeknownst to me, evaporates in the bright Antivan sunlight, and I step through the gates of the Warden compound with light spirit.

Ponka tears off as soon as the door is open enough for him to do so, barrelling down the hallway and skidding out as he takes the corner too quickly, headed for Leliana's room, if I'm not mistaken. I reach the turning of the hallway just in time to almost collide with Marco as he comes out of Alistair's office. He stops at once, blinking at me in surprise, then grins.

"Lily!" he exclaims, grabbing my shoulders and kissing me on each cheek enthusiastically. "I am so glad you have returned. And Alistair as well, yes?" He looks up and his grin widens. "Excellent! I am no longer in charge!"

Alistair, hearing this as he turns away from the door, laughs with Marco, and they clap each other on the shoulder. "And none too soon, I take it?"

"Ah, another day, and I was likely to expire of boredom," he complains, though he's half-joking. A mournful howl splits the air, and Marco grimaces, even as I'm turning in alarm. "Ah, yes. Poor hound. I regret to say that Leliana and her dwarven pig have departed for Orlais. It is my understanding she has left a letter for you in your chamber. Alistair, I realise you have only just returned; there is nothing that cannot wait while you recover from travel. However, perhaps we might converse over dinner, yes?"

Alistair looks up at the sky. It's just passing midday, so we've got time to settle ourselves, I'm thinking, but then he shakes his head ruefully. "I'll never rest until I know what's been going on," he says. "You know that."

Marco smirks. "_Si_, I had suspected as much. Come, then, and we will go over the events of the winter," he says, opening the door to Alistair's office again. Alistair hesitates, looking at me, and I shake my head, giving him a smile.

"Go on. You know you want to," I say, and he grins, giving me a slightly longer than necessary kiss before turning away.

I snort as the door closes behind them. Doesn't like leadership, my ass. He's never happier than when he's in charge of things and they're going well. He just doesn't like the pressure of the what-if's that come when things _don't_go well. I don't blame him, but he's better at it than he thinks.

I collar a couple of Wardens to help me move our trunks out of the hallway, since I know I'm not supposed to lift anything heavy. They make a show of grumbling, but both of them are smiling as they drop off the trunks and salute, welcoming me home, before they head out again. My room smells musty after having been shut up for months, and I fling open the windows, letting the sunlight in. When I turn, I notice a small scroll in the bowl on my washstand. It's tied with a ribbon and sealed with wax, showing that it's been undisturbed. Opening it confirms my suspicion: the letter from Lels.

_Dearest Sweetling, I have no way of knowing when this will reach you, nor how you fare, though I hope it is well. It saddens me to not be here to welcome you home, but I cannot stay. I received a summons from the Divine, and I mustn't ignore such an invitation. Besides, who knows what exciting tales await, no? I do not know how long I will be gone, nor when our roads may meet again, but know that I hold you fondly in my heart, and I will look for you when I may. Maker watch over you, and your gods keep you safe._

Beneath that, just the swoop of a capital "L".

There are so many things I wanted to speak with her about, so much I wanted her advice on, so many times I wished she was there, so I could cry on her shoulder, but she's gone.

Ponka slinks into my room a few minutes later, completely dejected and forlorn, and I drop to my knees, holding out my arms. He comes and sits next to me, half-over my lap as he rests his chin on my shoulder, and I hug him tightly.

"I miss her, too," I murmur, feeling very acutely the hollow that she's left, but he harrumphs. Leaning back, I look at him, and he has the funniest look on his face, like he can't believe I just said that. It takes me a moment, but then I understand. "Ohhh... you miss Schmooples," I say, and he hangs his head. "Awww... Poor hound!" I croon, putting my arms around his neck again.

Ponka feels better after a few moments and trots off in search of food, and I unpack until I get tired. Seized then by a sudden craving for anything spicy, I abandon a trunk in disarray to head for the kitchen. I'm not half-way across the courtyard before a blur of motion down one of the hallways resolves itself into the shape of Anders, who dashes into the courtyard and scoops me up into a big hug, spinning me around.

I squeal and giggle, hugging him back, but the way he's squashing me is decidedly uncomfortable. "The belly! Mind the belly!" I gasp.

He sets me down immediately, practically jumping back in surprise. "Already?" he blurts, staring at me, then reaches out a hand, glow flaring to life in his palm. He grins widely, eyes focusing on me again as the light is snuffed. "That's so wonderful! Amazing! The odds were very much against it happening so quickly."

I smile, oh, I know I'm beaming. "Well, funny you should mention that, because I met this _amazing_healer who completely fixed it so I could have children in the first place. Who knows what miracle might've been worked, hm?" I can feel the baby fluttering around in there, and it fills me with happiness. We're home, and everything's okay again. No more muddy, frozen Ferelden.

He laughs, turning a little pink, but I can see he takes the compliment to heart. I can feel it, the easiness, the free way we had with each other before the Incident, it's back and it's real and my friend is just my friend, standing there and laughing because he's so glad to see me and Alistair have this little every-day miracle for ourselves. This is home. Ferelden might have smelled like it, but... somehow, Antiva is... well, it's where my heart is.

_Let's just not look at that too closely._

"I'm so glad to be back," I say, taking yet another deep breath, closing my eyes briefly. "You look well," I observe, eying him up and down. Really, he had some sharp edges when I left, and a lot of grief. He seems to have left both behind. To my surprise, he actually colours a little, eyes darting off to the side for a second before he rallies, and I arch an eyebrow. "That's an interesting reaction."

He pauses a moment, then simply shakes his head. "It was an interesting winter," is all he says, then shrugs, giving me an eye with a wicked sparkle in it. Somehow I suspect that his bed wasn't cold, and I hope, whoever it is, that they're good to him. They certainly seem to have been good _for_him.

"That sounds like good news," I say, then bite my lip.

"Well, then we both have things to be thankful for," he says, nodding decisively, and I laugh.

"Yeah, and something else, besides," I say, and my cheeks heat. "In Redcliffe-" I start, but Alistair's door opens suddenly, spilling out him and Marco as they elbow each other, laughing, then clasp forearms.

"Good evening," Marco says, saluting lazily, casually. "I will see you after rounds."

"Right," Alistair says, waving, and Marco turns, headed for the barracks. When he turns back toward his office, he catches sight of us, and changes direction, coming to stand at my side.

"Alistair," I say, taking his arm and swaying against him. "Anders and I were just talking about some of the changes that happened over the winter. A lot's happened for all of us, I should think. I told him we're going to have a baby," I admit, looking up at him. "Had to. He smooshed me."

He looks down at me, slightly disappointed that he wasn't there to see Anders' reaction, but then brightens in the next moment. "Hey... does that mean you didn't tell him about... Redcliffe?" he asks, and I shake my head, no. He gets to be the one to do that. And I suddenly don't want to see Anders' reaction to it, my stomach inexplicably clenching and flipping as Alistair says it. "We were married, in the chantry," he says, and I can practically feel the pride radiating off him.

"Hmm, can't say I'm surprised," Anders says, and when I glance up, he's smiling, but there's something in his eyes that says we'll be talking about this later. Alistair doesn't seem to notice it, animated and laughing as he is, and makes plans to meet with Anders later tonight for chess and talk.

"There are a few things I want to go over before I'll be able to sit down," he says, then pulls me against him tightly, though sideways, as he's already learnt to accommodate The Bump. He kisses me softly, far more chaste than the press would have led me to believe, then turns me loose. "I'll see you at dinner," he says, then disappears back into his office.

When I look back at Anders, he's looking at the sky, but he catches me looking at him. "You need more red meat," he says bluntly, and I laugh.

"So noted. I also noticed- Oh," I pause, swallowing, and press a hand to my stomach. "Okay, you have to come with me, because if I don't eat something spicy very soon, I think I might be sick."

Anders laughs, following me willingly enough. I don't want to face the Wardens as a whole, not yet. Finding the place empty between meals, I grab as much peppered food from the kitchen as I can get and retreat with Anders to the clinic, where I dump out everything that happened in Ferelden, holding nothing back.

In the silence that follows the end of my tale, while I drink a glass of water, I remember when Anders said to me that he only knew _me_, that he'd never met Mahariel at all, and so couldn't be biased in that regard.

"Please... help me stay true to myself," I implore, and he smirks, shrugging with one shoulder.

"But if, as you say, she's your other half, then there won't be anything to notice," he says, and I bite my lip.

"I hope you're right."

I'm not so sure.

In any case, coming home is good for Alistair and me, and we settle back into familiar patterns, leaving behind the fear and uncertainty that Ferelden bred in us. Things are simple again, the questions predictable, the answers easy. Easy as breathing.

What's a mixed blessing is that I've not had a single lucid dream since I reunited with Mahariel. Sometimes I remember something about my dreams, sometimes I don't. They're back to what I had before I ever came here. Sometimes I dream of Nolan or Tamlen, sometimes of Gran or Grandma, sometimes of fantastic things and strange places. Many times, it's nightmares, but I'm used to that.

Brizio welcomes me back to the shop with an actual, honest-to-gods grin, the first time I come in, and proudly shows me the work he's done over the winter. Bored with the usual fare, he began experimenting with my gouges, and came up with some amazing framing work that he used to decorate a chest of drawers. Our supplier from Seheron is expected back in a few months, so after the baby's born, I'll have more of that fantastic red to play with, and can begin my project of making the Wardens more money.

I start working on another cradle, using a different design than the ones I turned out for the Fates last year. When Brizio realises that this cradle _is_for me, his eyes light up and he claps his hands together as though he has a sudden plan, but refuses to say anything else, simply going to work. For my part, I become very absorbed in making baby things, turning out a rattle, a few hooded baby-sacks, and a soft little bear out of the last scraps of my old flannel, using its buttons for the bear's eyes. I think Alistair will die of heart-melt when he catches me just tying the thread on the last button. It looks so small in his hand, and I suddenly want, more than anything, to see a tiny little head cradled in his palm.

Over and over again, despite the many things to distract me, I go back to the cradle, embellishing it, making it better, adding a mobile, polishing it, carving into the head- and footboards. Hopefully, this will be something that my grandchild will rest in. Maybe, if I'm lucky, my great-grandchild. I take my time, painting in the carvings with different stains.

I realised lately that I've begun eating like a hobbit: breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, lunch, tea, supper, dinner, dessert, midnight snack. I feel like I'm always eating, and I'm always starving. It's awful. But somehow, I'm still getting things done.

Best of all, the baby finally kicks hard enough that Alistair feels it. We're trying to sleep, and he has his hand over my lower belly, where it's been every night since I told him I was pregnant. I feel the baby kicking, and he suddenly jumps, sitting up half-way behind me and staring at my belly in surprise.

"Was that-"

The baby kicks his hand again, and he suddenly grins from ear to ear, the most goofy, besotted grin I've ever seen, hands reverently splaying across my stomach as he looks for and finds the little fluttering feet. I can't help but smile back as he looks at me in awe, and then he spends the next hour or more trying to make me forget how to breathe, covering me in kisses and heated, stuttering breath.

The next afternoon, I'm on my way to the kitchens when a dozen Wardens stride through the courtyard and out toward the gate. I follow after them, catching Alistair still in his office, pulling his gauntlets on. "What's going on?"

He smiles at me, shrugging. "Part of a wall collapsed in one of the mines. Standard protocol to inspect it for darkspawn sabotage, stand guard while they clear it out, and then seal the breach." He sighs heavily, shoulders dropping. "It's going to be long and boring, watching a bunch of miners move piles of dirt, and it's going to take all day."

I smile. "Awww... Well, I'll make sure there's food for you in my room," I murmur, pulling him down for a lingering kiss. "And make all that waiting around worthwhile."

His smile darkens as he kisses me again, heatedly, but so brief. "Right. I'll remember you said that," he says, voice holding as much promise as his eyes, and I shiver, blushing. I follow him out to the hallway, brow furrowing as I notice Anders standing amongst them. Alistair catches my look, responding to it. "I gather a few of the miners were hurt."

"Hmmm, well, good thing Anders will be there, then." I can't help it; I need another. Wrapping my fingers over the top of his breastplate, I go up on my toes and pull him down toward me to sway against him as I kiss him passionately, totally aware of our audience and relishing it. "Hurry home, tiger," I whisper, finally drawing back, and he runs a finger down my cheek.

Oh, that smile, I love that one, because he completely means it, no reservations or fear, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I love you too," he murmurs, and then he's turning and gone, out the door with the rest of the Wardens.

I head back to the dining hall to look for something with fruit or honey in it, craving sweetness, and also something with cow. Any beef will do. I always crave iron. I manage to find some heavy bread with dried fruit in it. The cook doesn't bat an eyelash when I come in and ask for some liver. I know a lot of people dislike it, but it's always been a personal favourite, which happens to come in handy right about now.

She's been amazingly thrilled over my pregnancy, and delights in feeding me at every opportunity, particularly when I have cravings. Gods only know why, but I'm not going to complain. Maybe she's a cook because she really likes it. After plying me with mushrooms and cream cheese with leeks and a sweet, lemony sangria, she finally lets me escape, stuffed to the maximum and contentedly so.

Back in the workshop, I set the cradle on its side and go back to work on painting it, nearly finished with the pattern of beading that goes all the way around it as a wide ribbon border around the base. I carved a pattern of swirling Art Nouveau ribbons and curls in another border above it; I've already finished the sun and moon on the footboard, and I'm quite pleased with the way the wavy rays of the sun,.the perfect arch of the moon, and their serene smiles turned out.

Switching out my pots, trading oak, ash, and walnut for cherry, honey, and ebony, I begin work on the lines and curves of the Nouveau pattern, something I've been looking forward to. I let my mind wander, daydreams of the look on Alistair's face when I first hand him our child, the sound of baby laughter, the pride I'll take in the happiness of our little family, for however long it lasts, musing on possible name choices.

I don't realise how late it's got, fully absorbed in my work, until Brizio distracts me by showing up at my elbow.

"_Ehi, ragazza,_" he says, calling me 'girl', just as he always has.

I look up, noticing that not only have the lamps in the shop been lit, but the sky outside is dark, and Brizio has brought me a plate of dinner that's gone long cold. I suddenly feel an acute ache in my lower back, cramping in my hands, and a fierce need to pee. I set my tools down, stretching my hands, looking up at him. "Thank you. I didn't even see it get dark."

"Mm-hmph," he grumps, but I can see the quirk at the corner of his mouth that tells me he's not really upset. "I will let you lock up," he says, resting a hand on my shoulder for a moment before shuffling out the door.

He's been more familiar with me since learning of Alistair's and my marriage and impending child, as have all the Wardens. Not that they were ever particularly unkind before or anything, but there's definitely something different. They're a little more careful not to crowd me, a little bit more respectful, a little more likely to smile at me. It's not a bad thing, I think.

Standing up, I dust off my hands and grab the keys, lock all the cabinets in the room, then carry my plate out the door, locking it behind me. Now in a rush, I hustle across the courtyard to the nearest garderobe, hastily ditching my plate on a bench, relieved to make it there in time. Moving about gets the kinks out of my joints, and I pace back and forth a few times before reclaiming my plate and heading back to my room. I wash my hands in the pitcher, then sit down on the side of my bed to eat.

I'm pacing again by the time I finish; I decide to walk the plate back to the kitchens instead of waiting until morning, and request a plate sent 'round to my room once Alistair is back in the building. I hear men's voices at the gate, just as I'm crossing the courtyard again, and stop, waiting, because there are not enough feet for it to be Alistair and the men coming back. Three men come in, two in armour, one in robes. I see their silhouettes before they reach the moonlight, and they resolve themselves into Angelo, Raffaello, and Anders. Marco comes striding out of a side hall, just as I realise that all of them are covered in blood and look like hell. The bottom drops out of my stomach as the sulphurous stench of darkspawn reaches my nose.

Oh gods.

Not breaking stride, Anders separates from the others and heads toward me rather than meeting with Marco, but he doesn't get to me before I see what Angelo does next.

All my hair stands up as Angelo pulls a shield off his back, handing it to Marco with the grimmest, most sombre look on his face that I have ever seen. Anders reaches my side just as I see it, just as the front of it becomes visible, before Marco reaches out to take it and hides it with his body.

The double gryphon.

The Warden Commander's shield.

My shield.

_My shield._

I reach out blindly, clutching at Anders' sleeve as he steadies me when I sway, feeling my stomach turn, my blood turned to frozen glass in my veins. I look up into his eyes, feeling the helpless grimace pulling at my mouth. There is a question on my face, a pleading, I know it, I can feel it, and Anders looks so desolate and haggard. He looks at me for a long moment as the sick horror piles into my stomach, then slowly shakes his head.

"No," I whisper brokenly, my voice not working, shaking my head in denial. "No, no, that's not possible, we haven't even had the baby yet. That's not how it goes; we have _years_left. It was just routine, just a wall that gave way, we haven't even been back a month," I argue, as though that will do any good.

"I'm so sorry, Lily," Anders says, sorrow etching deep lines in his face. "I tried- I- The lyrium was-" I look down at his shaking hands, then back up at his weary face, and wonder how much horror he's just seen.

"No-no-no-no, no it's not true, he's too strong; it's not true, it's not true," I beg, as though by repeating this, I can summon him back.

Everybody leaves things undone when they die. Everybody.

And now, there will be no more tomorrows for us, no look on his face when he meets his baby for the first time, no little family, not even one more night.

"Behind the wall, the collapse made a section of rock break through to the Deep Roads," Anders says, voice harsh. I don't want to hear this. I don't. It's too brutal. All of it gone in a second, how could it be- "When we cleared the way, they came boiling out like a turned over ants' nest. There were so many of them, Lily, and too few of us. It took everything I had just to keep them from getting past us, and we're the only ones left. I tried to reach him, I tried, but there were so many of them in the way, and when the ogre gored him, there was no one near enough to stop it. He didn't get up, and by the time I got there, it was too late for healing, and I didn't have enough lyrium to bring him back before it was too late for that, as well. I'm so sorry. I should have taken more- If I had known-"

I shake my head vehemently, even though the regret will haunt us both. Poisonous to blame on yourself the doings of the darkspawn, and I already know how dangerous lyrium is to Anders. He hasn't touched it since the Incident; the fact that he had some on him at all is a surprise, and the fact that his hands are shaking shows how much he needed it just to stay alive. Especially if he ran out.

"Marco killed it, and I tried to bring him back, I poured everything I had into him, but it wasn't enough, I couldn't pull the spell together, I didn't have any more lyrium, and he just... slipped through my fingers," he says, staring at his hands like they've betrayed him.

_Just breathe_

"I can't, I can't," I choke, shaking my head. "No- No it's not- No-" I sink to the bench behind me, my knees giving way as I begin to make this mad little keening noise, and I can't stop, curling around my rounded belly and the squirming little butterfly within. It's all I have left of him, now.

_It's just the life of a Warden, love, and a lot I accepted a long time ago._

"No!" I shriek, scaring the hell out of Anders, screaming at the voice of him in my memory, as though by denying it now, long after the fact, I can somehow stop him.

_Gonna catch me, soldier?_

Just breathe.

Don't let go!

Never, love. Not as long as I draw breath.

I break into helpless sobbing, and a moment later, I feel arms around me. Leaning into Anders, I'm grateful for his presence, and cling to him like my last rock on a stormy shore.

Dimly, I'm aware of a scramble of Wardens hastily leaving the compound, but I cannot pay them heed.

"We lost Alistair," Anders murmurs, and I look up in time to see Ponka's face fall with such sadness. He licks my cheek, nudging my legs with his head, trying to give me solace, but wanders off after a time. I hear him howling distantly, a heart-breaking wail of mourning, and I am grateful to him for giving public voice to the anguish.

I weep for hours, until a sort of dull horror washes over me, numbing me into staring silence, the artificial calm of shock. Anders stays with me through it all, mourning with me, and I realise I'll never find a better friend. I am so glad he's with me.

When I finally make it back to my room, I can't bring myself to get into bed. It's too big. The thought occurs to me, so naturally, that I could go to Alistair's bed.

But no.

That thought nearly makes me cry again.

Taking up my cloak, I throw it around my shoulders and wander the keep aimlessly, until I get too tired to continue. Finding myself in the wing of spare rooms, I open a door at random, go inside, and pass out on the bed. How strange, when I wake in the morning, to find myself in the bed that I shared with Zevran.

Just another ache.

Nothing is the same.

All the light is sucked out of my days.

I keep making lists in my head, catching myself thinking, "I need to tell Alistair-"

But no.

There is a public funeral event that I must attend, as his widow. I wear grey, the Antivan colour of mourning, as is proper. I stand through the entire ceremony, as is proper, despite the aching in my back and legs. It's the least I can do. I receive condolences, people touching my arms, my shoulders, "I'm sorry for your loss," and behind their hands, whispers of, "Oh, their poor baby."

I don't care.

There is a sombre gathering of the Wardens in the courtyard, an acknowledgement of Marco's assumption of command. To save me from having to do it, he boxes up everything that belonged to Alistair and puts it in my room. I can't even look at it, not for weeks. "I want you to know that this is your home, for as long as you wish it, for as long as you live," he says to me, hand on my shoulder. His eyes are sympathetic, but I just feel sick.

"Thank you," I answer mechanically.

The little life within me is the only thing that gives me hope, for a time, the only thing that keeps me fighting to get out of bed every day. It needs me. The only way it'll ever know Alistair, now, is through me. I determine to move out of my room, and back into the one I had before. There's more space in it for a cradle, anyway. The smell of jasmine haunts me, but it's more of a comfort now. That Night, at least, was a situation I had some influence over.

I go back to work, because wood is stable, and makes sense, and I know what to do with it. I don't have to think. After a hellish day of trying to make myself relax and do nothing, I visit my room and go through what was deposited here from Lels' until I find enough fabric to work with, then begin making the sorts of things babies need: blankets, swaddling, cradle sheets and a couple of pads, more sacks and bonnets - some for winter.

The day when I think to prepare the baby for winter, I cry for an hour, because I suddenly remember so vividly how it felt to have Alistair wrapped around me, all his fiery heat and massive strength, protecting me from the bitter Ferelden cold, shielding me from the world.

Spring softens into summer, and I grow big enough that there's just not enough room in the shop for both me and my belly, and I have to give up. I can't stop expecting Alistair to be around every corner.

But no.

There's no more bite-tag, no more laughter, no more whispered conversations in the dark.

_You're so bad at chess._

I'm in the market, buying more thread at a small shop, when a group of four old ladies begin whispering amongst themselves and looking at me, giggling to each other. I'm used to people smiling at me because of my belly, so I pay them no mind, putting my purchase in my bag, until one of them speaks.

_"You are so round, girl!"_ she says in Antivan, clearly excited about my impending birth. Moreso than me, that's for sure - I'm terrified of it. _"You won't see another full moon,"_she adds, laying a finger aside her nose and grinning toothlessly at me.

Her words haunt me, particularly when I hear the crier, three days later.

It's the afternoon on the day after Funalis, a Thedasian Day of the Dead, where everyone spends the day being uncharacteristically quiet, the entire city having such a hush over it that it's eerie, all the food is cold, and there are passion plays about the grisly death of Andraste in the market square.

The man's words stop my heart: "Pyre in the square, fifteen slaughtered in midnight massacre, head of the Crows has retired, pyre in the square, fifteen slaughtered..." he repeats, heading down the street.

Retired? No.

_The only way to leave the Crows is boots first, into the fire_.

I carry my swollen belly in both arms as I hurry back to my room.

There's got to be some trick.

I need to see for myself. I pull myself together hastily, Ponka trotting alongside me as we head for the centre of the city.

In my waddling, gravid state, it takes me a long while to get there, so when I arrive, the place is filled with people. I push my way through, but I'm on the wrong side of the square to see the procession that is headed toward the pile of wood, a stretcher held aloft above their heads. I slip through the crowd, people mostly politely making way for my gigantic belly and the mabari at my side. I need to see his face, find out who took the fall for him.

After all, it can't be him, right? I'm still alive.

_"-heard that he was caught unawares-"_ I hear, someone speaking Antivan nearby. The crowd is full of gossip. _"-single-handedly took down fifteen men before-"_Hmmm... that does sound like the man I know.

They stop on the other side of the pyre, just as I am able to win a position close enough as they lift him up, and I see him.

Him, and his caramel skin.

Him, and his hair like spun sunlight.

And a tattoo-

_Oh gods, no_

-a tattoo-

_No..._

-curving down his cheek toward the corner of his mouth.

_No!_

Nothing can describe the depth of horror, terror, and despair this moment brings. The bright sunny day is now grey as autumn to me, the shouting of the crowd dimming to white noise as I slowly turn to stone, staring in sickened silence, unable to move, to tear my eyes away from that profile, that motionless face. My world is ashes. I feel the tears burning my eyes as they set torch to the wood, and for one, crazy second I have the urge to dart forward, rip it from their hands, pull him down and make him wake up. But of course... that can't happen.

He's dead.

_He's dead._

Reeling, I know only that I have to get away from the square, and as quickly as possible. I can't stand to see him burn. I push my way back through the crowds of people, making some of them angry, but I don't care.

_My sunlight_

I dash out of the crush into a side-street, away from the press of people, trying not to hyperventilate. I don't even know where I'm going, just stumbling down the alley, blinded by the tears I can't stop. I can't stop.

"Ponka," I sob brokenly, gods, is this really my voice? He gives me a high-pitched warble in response, mourning again, as I am. "Lead me home, boy, lead me home," I whisper, and he pushes his head up under my hand, letting me grab onto his collar. I don't remember the trip back to the base by the time we get there; all the streets look the same.

I don't have a right to this anguish. We've been over for a long time.

It doesn't matter.

I recognise the gate because Ponka stops there while the guard opens it. I careen through the halls and up the stairs to my room, ignoring the questions of the few Wardens who encounter me, and slam the door behind me.

Collapsing sideways on the bed, I curl around the baby in my belly as it kicks and shifts irritably, somehow knowing my state of distress, and sob uncontrollably. There are no strong arms to shield me from this, no soft burr in the darkness to whisper to me, no scent of cedar or clove, no peace, no safety, no love. All gone, all of it; four months, and I've lost them both.

_"Deny yourself nothing,"_he said, and I took him at his word, but I did, I did deny myself, because he was all I ever truly wanted, despite my love for Alistair, and now I'm left with a fatherless child and an empty bed, mourning my squandered time and the loss of the man who brought me here.

The one I love beyond all reason.

The one I can't seem to let go of, no matter how hard I try, no matter how bad he was for me... and I for him. Distantly, I hear Ponka howling, the same way he did when Anders came back without Alistair, a broken, inconsolable cry.

And me?

My wail echoes his. I can't help it. I can't.

He's dead.

And with him... any chance I may have ever had to make things right. Somehow, I broke the chain and I never even knew it. Or... or maybe he did. I couldn't let go, I never let go. I still love him so much that his loss is rending furrows in my heart, tearing it apart, killing me inside.

And I'm still alive, so he must have let go of me. He finally gave up. And if I'm being honest with myself, he was right to do it. He owed me nothing, and I owed him everything. I owed him my life, and I would've given it to him, if he would have let me.

Oh gods.

"I'm so sorry..." I whisper, wishing I could reach him, that it wasn't too late, too late, too fucking late for everything.

As long as I live, there will never be another.

Lost, lost, lost. It's all lost, and so am I.

I can't stay here any longer. In a mad, blind panic, I hastily pack everything I own into my trunks, but I realise I can't move them on my own, and I need someplace to go if I'm going to leave, so I head out of the compound. I don't even know where I'm going until I find myself outside Ferrilin's parlour. The curtain is tied aside to invite, so I step into the gloomy interior.

She turns, a professional smile on her face that fades away as soon as she lays eyes on me, and though I bite my lip, the tears come again. I clap my hands over my face, and in the next moment, I feel her arms around my shoulders, the smoky scent of amber and musk about her.

"Shhh... I know," she murmurs, and I hear the thickness in her voice, as well. "I had thought perhaps I would see you today." There is no more to be said. We both mourn. After a moment, she pushes the door closed, and Ponka lays down in front of it, keeping it from opening again. I sit down heavily, back aching from all the walking, as she silently makes tea. She sits on the couch next to me, handing me a cup, knowing by now that I take it with honey.

I hold the cup in both hands, the heat warming my palms, and burst into tears again, shoulders shaking as I try to hold it all in and fail. I still wasn't over Alistair's death, and now this.

_Oh, Apollo, is this because I forgot to make offering at Redcliffe? I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, please, don't take any more from me, please, I couldn't bear it. The child is all I have left. Please..._

I stay with Ferrilin until the sun begins to set, until the hardness of her couch sets my back to screaming. "Thank you," I say, my voice broken and raw, the first words spoken in hours.

She nods, having shed tears herself. "No other would understand," she says, and I nod. We are the only ones who truly mourn him. Ponka rises as I turn for the door, and we step out into the late evening, the sky beginning to turn orange with the first blush of sunset. I head toward the waterfront, taking a route I know well by now. Masochist that I am, I stop by the park and stand in the little grotto where I last laid eyes on him. My head hurts with the crying now, and I lean against the wall for a time, resting my back for a few, precious minutes.

Finding a soft piece of stone in the garden, I return to the cave and draw the swoops of the ring I once wore for him, as though I could call him back, if he could just see this, he would come back, impossible as that is. I hesitate, but what does it matter now? Above it, I write, "Sunlight," because he's taken all I had left, and beneath it, _"El'lath uth suledin. Emma uth na'asha."_Our love will never die. I'll always be your woman.

And then there's nothing left to do. I drop the rock and turn away, my last message to him scratched into the wall, never to be read by eyes that would understand. The sky is fuchsia and indigo as I leave the cave, and darkened to blackness by the time I near the Warden base. My back is killing me, but I stand for a time, looking out at the waxing half moon.

_...And when she covers him, he sets her aflame,_whispers his voice in my memory, and I choke on it. We stood, just here, and for a moment, I can almost feel his arms around me again, feel the brush of his hair against my neck. I grimace as I turn away, trying to fight back another round of crying, at least long enough that I can return home.

I'll find a new place to live tomorrow. The Warden base holds too many memories, too much pain.

The agony in my back has begun to roll in waves down my legs by the time I manage to make it through the doors, and I have to rest against the wall again before I can continue to my room. Halfway through the courtyard, there is a sudden flood between my legs, soaking my trews and splattering all over the ground.

Oh shit.

It's not just a backache.

I suddenly feel as though I've taken a hammer blow to the pelvic bone, and my knees give out. I fall to all fours on the ground, crying out in pained surprise. I hear a man's voice say, "Oh shit," and the sound of running feet, as the spasm passes. Panting, I crawl over to the bench and try to lever myself up to my feet. Another pair of running feet precede hands at my elbow and my waist, helping me rise, turn out to be Anders as he wraps an arm around my waist and heads toward the clinic with me.

"Well, I'd like to say this was unexpected, but somehow I don't think you'd believe me," he murmurs, and I laugh, even though it's strained. We're almost there when another spasm rocks me, and I have to stop, my hands balling in Anders' robe as I try to breathe through it. "Nearly there, now," he murmurs as it passes and I can catch a full breath. He gets us moving again, leading me to the bed in the back of his office.

"I'll be right back," he says, and I stare at him in horrified terror.

"Don't-" I start, but he takes my hand, shaking his head.

"I'll only be gone a moment. I just want to send someone to fetch Benina. I'll only be just outside the door, I promise," he says, and I nod, a little too quickly. He squeezes my fingers before turning away, and while he's gone, I have another contraction. He comes back in, just as it's finished, and I'm panting and crying.

"Why, why does it have to be today, why?" I moan, as Anders settles himself behind me, straddling my hips and giving me something to lean back against as the contractions get stronger. Each one hurts more than the last, and I'm finding it harder and harder to breathe through them.

"Bad emotional upset," he murmurs, telling me without saying that he knows what's happened. Extremely capable and knowing hands go to work at my lower back, easing some of the pain. "You're far enough along for that to trigger labour." I rock forward, crying out as another contraction rips through me, and he continues to rub my back. It's more of a comfort than I would have expected.

I moan brokenly as it passes, knowing that another will come, dreading it. They're closer and closer together, and if my hazy recollection is correct, this is progressing a lot faster than maybe it ought to. I'm not sure whether that's good news, because it'll be over soon, or bad news, because it's incredibly painful and what if it rips something that can't be fixed fast enough?

"Oh gods," I whimper as I feel another one coming on, and Anders laces his fingers between mine.

"I'm here," he says, and I sob, because it shouldn't be him behind me. It should be Alistair. And he's not even here to see his child born, to hold it for the first time, the one thing I wanted to give him more than anything else in all the world, just to see the look on his face, and he's not here for it.

This one hurts so much, I almost scream, bearing down on Anders' hands until my knuckles turn white, before it passes again. When I open my eyes, Benina is hustling in, and whomever the Warden is who brought her here closes the door and beats a hasty retreat.

Immediately, she rolls up her sleeves and washes her hands at the pitcher on the stand nearby, then crouches at the edge of the bed. "Scoot up," Anders says, putting his hands under my thighs to help me move, setting me so that my ass is at the very edge of the bed.

"I must check for the crowning," she says, and I have no idea what she means. She tugs off my boots, then deftly unties my trews and shucks me out of them. At this point, I'm in too much pain to care that I am now half-naked in front of Anders. He won't be able to see anything over my belly anyway. Benina gently pushes my thighs apart, looking up at me. "Do not be afraid. I must reach inside to feel for the baby's head."

Sudden understanding dawns, and I let Anders pull me backward, cradling me against his chest as Benina briefly slips a gentle finger inside me.

"It will not be long now," she says, nodding as she withdraws, and I immediately have another contraction. Quickly, Anders sits me up again, the pain amazingly lessening in my back and localising more against my pubic bone, but oh gods, it hurts so much, and this time I do scream, though I try to grit my teeth on it. "No, do not try to hold it in, that will hurt you," she admonishes. "There is no shame in it; nearly all women scream in labour. Just breathe."

_Just breathe._Alistair's voice whispers in my head, all those nights when I questioned myself, when I struggled with my guilt over us, and loving him. She didn't mean to echo him, wouldn't have had any idea what the phrase would mean to me, I know, but it makes me cry all the same, and fortunately, they have no idea. They just assume it's the pain, and that's okay.

No matter my intentions, I can't help but scream my way through the final contractions while Benina patiently waits, checking the baby's progress every so often. They are coming so close together that it's almost continuous when she finally nods. "It is time. Now you must push," she says, massaging my belly, and Anders rocks us forward as my hands tighten on his again. My voice is ragged as I bear down, and I can feel Benina's fingers within me, coaxing the flesh to part and allow the baby passage. "No, no, do not relax," she says, as I try to catch my breath in between, even as I feel the next one coming on. "Push and hold." I try to follow her instruction as the next one rolls over me, and I feel something slip, just a little bit. "Good!"

It feels like it's taking forever, but I'm sure it isn't. I push several more times as the minutes tick by. "I can't do it, I can't," I pant, shaking and sobbing as the pain becomes unbearable, feeling like I'm being rammed between the legs by an ox every time I contract.

"The baby does not know this, and so it will come anyway," Benina says dryly.

"Oh gods, no, oh gods-" I whimper as the next one comes, then scream again, trying to push.

"There is the head," Benina says. "Two more strong pushes. Come, you can do it, almost over now," she murmurs in encouragement.

I feel Anders' arms tighten around me as he rocks us forward again with the next wave, and I push hard, holding his hands tightly. I feel the baby's shoulders compact as it tries to squeeze through. My hipbones flex apart from within in a decidedly horrible way as the cartilage in the centre of my pubic bone abruptly dislocates for a moment with a sickeningly disgusting crunching, fleshy sound. But then, in the next moment, I hear a tiny, thin wail.

"You have a daughter," Benina says, smiling. My hair is plastered to my face by sweat and I am completely breathless, but she pushes up my shirt and lays the baby across my breast. She stops squalling immediately, cooing softly, and I look down into my baby's face for the first time.

My heart swells to bursting as this tiny little girl who now is my entire world looks up at me in awe. My smile is a small, trembling thing, but I kiss her forehead softly. "Welcome to the world," I murmur, tears raining on her downy hair, the softest thing I have ever felt in all my life. Anders' hand rises beside me, one trembling finger stroking gently across her head.

"Andraste's eyes, Lily, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he murmurs, and I laugh and cry at the same time.

"Gods, Anders, I'm so glad you're here," I confess, and he hugs me tightly.

"So am I," he says, making my heart ache.

My stomach flexes and cramps unexpectedly, hurting like hell, and I cry out in surprise.

"It is only the afterbirth," Benina says, reassuring me, and within minutes, she has cleaned up the mess and washed away the blood. Anders rests a hand low on my belly, and the healing radiating out from it washes away the horrible ache. After a moment, it begins to feel a lot less like healing and a lot more like something else, and dimly I recall the day he made it so that I could bear this child in the first place.

"Wait, what-" I begin, but he shakes his head.

"Shh... It has to be done," he murmurs. My eyes are slipping closed of their own accord as the sweet sensation intensifies. "Stops the bleeding, takes away the pain, shrinks your belly," he explains, not letting up, and I moan, head tipping back against his shoulder. The baby shifts restlessly, face turning back and forth, and I feel Benina's hands there, helping her to latch onto my breast. I cry out as the combination catapults me over the edge, the strength of Anders' healing keeping me keening and writhing at that fiery height for what feels like a small eternity before it finally begins to ebb. leaving me breathless and exhausted.

By now, the baby has fallen off my tit, and Benina helps me get her turned around so she can latch onto the other, showing me how to get her to open her mouth wide enough, how to ensure that she's attached properly so I don't hurt myself. When the baby passes out, Benina puts a diaper on her, showing me how to wrap the cloth and giving me advice on how to keep her dry and comfortable. I'm beginning to pass out, myself, so I lay down with the baby after that, putting her on her back at my side, her tiny little head resting on my arm.

There is an incredibly awkward moment as Benina prepares to leave when she says, "It is a good night for a birth. You are blessed, Anders," clearly thinking he's the father. Strangely, perhaps tellingly, he doesn't disabuse her of the notion, just smiling and bidding her farewell.

He brings me a glass of water as he returns to the bed, sitting next to me. I lean up long enough to accept it, drinking it all in one go, surprised at how thirsty I am, then collapse again.

"Tell me you're staying," he says, watching me carefully, and I blink.

"What?"

"I went to your room earlier, looking for you, and it was stripped bare."

I'm caught out, and I open my mouth, but nothing comes for a moment. "Uh- I- Honestly... I don't know. Things are... not good, in my head, in my heart. I'm very... lost."

He looks at me for a long moment before speaking, chewing over his response. "I'd like it if you stayed at least a few days, so I can keep an eye on you two. Will you do that?"

I nod, and he looks relieved. "I can't make any promises, but I can say that I really don't feel like moving right now."

He smiles and shakes his head. "No, you stay right there."

"Where will you sleep, since I've taken over your bed?"

His smile gets a little wider. "Not my bed, sweetheart. I sleep in there," he says, pointing at what I thought was a closet door. He pops it open and there's an entire studio apartment in there.

I blink. "I thought that was a closet!"

He laughs, winking at me. "Helpful, isn't it? Completely inconspicuous door." He locks the main door to the clinic, then slips through the door to his own space. "I'll leave the door open; just call out if you need me."

The baby wakes every two hours, fussing over something, usually hunger or diaper, but sometimes just because she needs to hear my voice. She isn't soothed completely until she falls asleep with my finger securely wrapped in her tiny fist, mouth latched firmly onto the end of it. After that, she doesn't wake me until dawn. Benina bustles in shortly after that, bringing me a huge basket full of food. She spends a moment lecturing me on good eating, then takes the baby from me as soon as she's done eating, so that I can feed myself next.

"Have you given thought to a name?" she asks, beaming down at the baby's sweet little face, and I shake my head, mouth full.

"No..."

"She will need one very soon."

"I know... I just... don't know what to..." My throat constricts, and I can't say anything else. Anders comes in from outside not a moment later; he must have slipped out while I was sleeping.

His mouth is full, and he catches my disconcerted look, waving a roll at me; I see the overloaded plate in his hand, and realise he couldn't have left more than a handful of minutes before Benina came in.

"Ah, there you are. What say you, hm? Your daughter needs a name, yes?" she asks him, and he freezes, roll stuffed in his mouth to hold it as he shuts the clinic door.

He glances at me, then shakes his head, setting down his plate. "Not mine, Benina. Alistair's."

She pauses, surprised, staring at him, then looking between us, and then her face falls and she looks down at the baby sadly, though she still smiles, so as not to scare her. "Auck, I am sorry, I did not know. I should not have assumed. Forgive me."

"It's all right," I say, waving a hand, tired already from just sitting up and having something to eat. The baby makes a curious little grunting sound, then noisily fills her diaper, and Benina sighs.

"I will see to this," she says brusquely. "She needs sunlight. We will return." In a moment, she has swept out of the clinic, and I sigh, feeling weird about letting her walk away with my child, but Anders wouldn't trust her so much if she were going to do something bad.

He sits on a chair next to the bed, holding his glowing hand out over my stomach, and I have to close my eyes as a wave of warmth washes over me, the familiar ease of healing. "Looking good," he says, taking another bite of the roll he's got and sitting back. "Once you're on your feet, you should be fine."

I worry at my lower lip, looking at him as I bite into a piece of sliced peach. "What do you think I should name her?" I ask, and he shrugs.

"Never gave that sort of thing any thought. Never had to worry about it."

I sigh. I wish Alistair was here to help me with this.

Fast on the heels of that thought is the sudden, crushing remembrance of what set off my labour yesterday, and I burst into tears, dropping the food and clapping my hands over my face. Anders' muffled oath comes from the chair, and then his arms are around me, and I sob on him. He seems to be under the impression that I'm crying over Alistair, and it's true, his loss with his baby in my arms is a very sharp, painful thing, but it's not him that has gutted me in this moment.

When I can finally breathe again, Anders hands me a wet cloth, and I wipe my face. "Anders- Yesterday-" I choke, and he sighs heavily.

"I heard."

"But- but I'm still alive," I say, gagging on it, and he sighs again, running his hand over my hair and hugging me about the shoulders again.

"I know."

"What does it mean?"

He just shakes his head. "I don't know, Lily, I really don't. I guess it's just not your time yet. Maybe the child kept you tied here, instead."

Alistair's last act to shield me, though he didn't know it.

I'm still crying when Benina brings the baby back in, fast asleep. She quietly sets about making tea, and I fall asleep within minutes of drinking it.

After three days, I can walk again without help, and within the week, I'm feeling strong enough that I start pacing the courtyard with her. I still can't think of a name.

She's nearly a month old before I finally decide to call her Cassie. It's short for Cassiopeia, the constellation that always helped me find my bearings, on Earth. Cassie Theirin, and there you have it, Anora, no heir from Alistair, no threat to your rule.

We spend most of our time sleeping, those first three months. I end up having to keep her schedule just out of sheer self-preservation, at least for a little while.

We're drowsing in the warmth of the late October early afternoon, Satinalia again, when I open my eyes. Cassie's not awake yet, so I carefully slip from the bed and stretch. I'm facing the window, and after a moment, I realise there's a stone on the sill. It's placed directly in the centre, where it was sure to be noticed; smooth, white, flat and round, it looks like a river rock.

A simple thing, just a stone on the window sill, but I'm on the second floor. When I flip it over, there are the lines of my tattoo, swirling across the surface in black paint.

There are only three people in all the world who ever knew what it looks like. Two of them are dead, and only one them was the kind of person who could climb to a second story window, silent and unnoticed in broad daylight.

The stone falls from nerveless fingers as I swallow hard. What cruelty is this?

No.

I forget: my torturers saw it, too, and the mage, and Murdoch. How many others? My tattoo isn't a complete secret anymore. All this means is that someone's connected the tattoo to me, and likely me to Mahariel. This could be a warning. A sudden flood of alarm runs through me, and I turn quickly, but Cassie still lays innocently on the bed, mouth hanging open in contented sleep.

My life here isn't safe, not by any stretch. Anything that felt to the contrary was an illusion. It's time for me to suck it up, and protect myself, because there's no-one who will do it for me. No-one's going to love her as fiercely as I do, and there's no-one in the world who's going to want to protect her as much as I do. I'm all she's got.

So I'm just going to have to be enough.

Things may have got a whole lot more dangerous, but I'm a whole new animal. I'm not going to take another second for granted, and I will fight fiercely to protect that which is mine. I'm done having things taken from me.

Cassie's face screws up a moment before she wails upon waking, and I pick her up quickly.

"Shhh... Mama's here, baby," I croon, and she quiets, rooting on my neck. I tuck her under my tunic as I leave the room, and the stone at the base of the window.


	41. Epilogue: Off the Edge

I thought for a long time about leaving the Warden compound, moving out on my own, but Anders reminded me of the barren seaside tree, and in the end I stayed, but I've felt so grey.

The only thing that shines, that beams with colour and life is my little Cassie. She never leaves my side, except in the arms of Anders or Benina, and on one occasion, Marco; he caught me curled up on a bench asleep, face pressed to the stucco, baby cuddled tightly against my breast. I'd just... run out of steam, crossing the courtyard, and couldn't make it to my bed. He was so sweet to me, though, and offered to walk around with her for an hour or two so I could get some rest. His youngest is four now, and I believe he and his wife are done having children, if the gossip is any indication. He got a little misty-eyed, and I think I can understand the need for baby-smooshes. I'll miss it when it's gone, I can feel it in my arms.

It's cold enough now to need a fire at night, and I sit by the hearth in my room with Cassie asleep in the cradle beside me. She'll be crawling and cruising by spring, and probably walking by the end of summer, so I've set to making her a few pinafores and pantaloons, a few tunics and overalls.

Ponka, drowsing by the fire up to this point, lifts his head suddenly, looking toward the window. On his feet in an instant, he puts himself between me and whatever it is. I've got my hand behind me, wrapped around the hilt of the dagger I keep at my lower back, ready to put myself in front of my daughter.

"Oh... so it is that way between us now, is it?" a heart-stoppingly familiar burr emerges from the darkness in the corner, just a moment before the speaker himself.

My skin feels like it's on fire, too hot, too small, a physical reaction I cannot help but have as my mouth is suddenly dry as a desert, stopping my tongue. There's no blur at the edges of my perceptions; this is no dream. He stands on the edge of the firelight that flickers in the amber eyes of this impossible man who was once mine.

"You- N-No," I say, standing up. I don't let go of my dagger, but it comes to rest at my side, pointing toward the floor. I don't know what to do. "I was in the square. I saw."

_I carried her body_

"I know. You have no idea how difficult that was to arrange."

_I never meant to leave you_

"What did you do?"

"Are you truly sure you wish to know that, _cara_?" I'm tired of illusions and secrets, and I lift my chin.

Probably not, but still... I need to.

He lays a finger to his lips, glancing about, then very deliberately taps two fingers over his heart, holding my gaze. It takes me a moment, but then I remember it was his son who-

_Oh gods-_

Oh, his eyes, oh, look at that cold pragmatist. His own son.

_A son got by lies and treachery, who tried to kill him first, and by extension me. A little insurance to bring him back to me if he so chose? Remember what Anders did to himself that night because of that son?_

He still hasn't moved, and neither have I. Something wild and wounded begins to howl within me, and I try to keep my breathing even. This is madness.

"Tell me something only you would know," I say, and he looks at me for a long moment.

"Come now, _cara_," he says softly, shaking his head. "I read your message to me. Perhaps you did not expect that I would see it, but that only makes it the more true, yes?"

He's caught me, and there's really nothing I can say to that. He's right. "And it took you three months to do anything about it?"

I don't need to ask him why he didn't come to me like a normal person. Can't exactly just stroll up and knock on someone's door in broad daylight if you're supposed to be dead. No, of course, it would be under cover of darkness.

"Perhaps you will notice that it did not take me _a year_," he says archly, making me feel like shit, then shrugs, spreading his hands, and I notice then that he is wearing the ring I chose for him, even now, after all this time. "It took time for me to line things up, so to speak. I wished for there to be some... assurance of safety."

My heart leaps into my throat, threatening to choke me. "What?" I squeak, then swallow hard. "What are you talking about?"

He pauses, then shakes his head; leaning against the wall, he folds his arms over his chest and looks down. "I find I care no more for lies. Too many things have become clear to me, far too late, and at great cost. I was angry for a very long while, after hearing you in the courtyard, _cara_. But then it occurred to me, during those long months that you were in Ferelden, that these things you had laid bare in front of him... you had asked of me first. You said to me once, when we stood on the beach, that you wished we could simply live on that island, abandon everything, never be heard from again, and I said to you, no. No, we must go to Antiva. This simple thing, this first thing you asked of me, it has preyed upon me all this time. I watch you walking around my city, heavy with a child that is not mine, and I remember, before you did this, you said to me you wished for it to be mine, and I said to you, no. No, I cannot give you this. I said these things; I brought us here." His voice is harsh with self-recrimination and darkness within.

I stare at him in shocked silence, too stunned to move, to react coherently. These things I have entirely blamed myself for.

His jaw flexes, but he is otherwise so still, so much the Crow right now, so tightly controlled. He can't hide it in his voice, though... not from me. "I wished to be angry with you for your desires, but truly, I have been angry with myself for being unable to meet them. Even as you left for Ferelden, I was caught in the Game, and I saw only what was a useful situation. But I was reminded of my mortality, my vulnerability, when I collapsed several times one day at the end of Haring. I knew it was not me; I could feel you, so far away, and hanging on the edge of life. I could not reach you, could not help, and I began to understand that I had been careless after all, to trust our lives to hands other than our own. Rumours of my infirmity began, and that was all it took to set the ambitious to circling like wolves."

"I was tortured-" I begin, and he nods, not flinching.

"_Sì_, I am aware. Many told tales of seeing the Hero and the knight Alistair. All rumours, of course, but so very many of them, particularly from Redcliffe. Completely discounted until a captain of a certain Arl's guard was hanged in the market by Anora for torture, as a warning to others that she considers such an act to be treason. Ah, but the servants of the castles whisper amongst themselves, and the story goes that it was punishment for mistakenly torturing the wife of the Warden Commander of Antiva, oh, but wasn't she the one who married Alistair in Redcliffe? They say her name was Lily, why she certainly resembled the Hero, and they say she was tattooed like a Crow."

All my hair is standing on end. Ripples and ripples; did I really think I could walk around Ferelden wearing my face and not be recognised?

"The jaws of the trap are closing around us even now. I saw what events were being set in motion, but there has been only so much I can control," he says, getting my attention again.

"Who? Why do they care? What does it matter who I am?"

Zevran shakes his head. "Ah... The guild, and others, whomever can get hold of you first, I imagine, now that all the pieces have been put together by a few who are powerful enough to make things happen. You're a loose end at best, a curiosity and a pawn, possibly a valuable slave or an experiment, at worst. Many things have been suggested."

"Have been," I echo hoarsely.

"Yes, _cara_. The display was to ward off some of the nastier possibilities, particularly those that concerned speculation over what was between you and me. When I say the trap is closing, what I mean is, we have..." He leans toward the window, looking through the slats at the sky. "Oh... perhaps an hour, before it will be too late to flee."

Those eyes, oh gods, those eyes.

My heart is thundering in my ears, terror constricting my throat, making it hard for me to think, but I shake my head. "Where would we go?"

"I have a way, and a place, but I do not dare speak of it, not here."

"But you said there was no way-"

He shakes his head. "The Hero is dead, and the head of the guild has retired. Who is there to chase if there is no-one here, hm? Rumours and myth. Nothing but legend. We could fade away into it, tonight, but we do not have much time."

Still I stand there, shocked, rooted to the spot. "What if I don't go with you?" I ask, the words pulled from my mouth. Do I trust him?

_Was there ever truly a time when you didn't?_

No. Loss of faith, yes. Loss of trust... no.

For a moment, something very vulnerable and very hurt flickers in his eyes, but it's gone almost as soon as it comes, replaced by the mask of the Crow. "I shall stay here until they arrive, and then I will do what I can to protect us all. However... that is not my preferred method, as it entails a very low probability of our survival, and a very high probability of your babe being taken by the guild for the same purposes to which I was put... except she is too small to remember that there is another way of life." The look he levels at me is cool, and there's a hardness about it that tells me we're in some serious gods-damned trouble right now. He's not lying.

_He would never lie to me._

That was before. He's lied to me many times, now.

_But I love him._

I can't live my life based on who's the man I love... but I would do _anything_ to keep Cassie from the Crows.

Do I trust him?

_Completely._

I'm amongst the Wardens. I'm safe here.

_Safe like you were when they showed up and stole Zev from your bed without even waking you?_

Shit.

"I- All right," I finally say, startling him. I'm not sure if it was my hesitation, my reluctance, or my sudden capitulation. "How much can I pack?" I ask, already pulling my armour padding from a chest, shaking it out and struggling into it. My mind races over all the things that absolutely have to be packed, and all the things that should be left.

"Only what we can carry. Do not worry over food, a tent, or other such things; I have already seen to it."

I pause, looking at him. "So sure I'd go with you?"

He presses his lips together, the cool look returning. "No. But I had hoped." Another frozen moment, and then I turn away.

Gods, why does everything have to hurt so much, be so difficult? All I wanted was simple.

_Easy as breathing_

Yes, exactly. And now it's all just danger and heartache again.

"Ponka, go get Anders, and quickly," I tell my hound, opening the door, and he darts off.

As fast as I can, and with Zevran's help, I stuff myself into my armour, finding that it won't fasten over my breasts properly, but there's no time for messing about. I pull out a couple of packs, begin filling them with everything important, everything I absolutely cannot leave behind.

The biggest problem proves to be Cassie. Ooh, and did I tempt the Fates when I thought I'd never want to travel with a child still in nappies? Too late now. She has a full pack all her own, even with me being conservative. Gods, so much has to stay.

I leave behind all the fancy dresses and Ferelden clothing, my altar, my books, everything. I only take such things as would be sensible, and those things that shouldn't fall into others' hands, such as my journals, the picture of me that Leliana drew, things from Earth, and all the jewellery and gems from the Blight.

"Lily, what in the Maker's name- You!" Anders appears in my doorway, just as startled by Zevran's presence as I was, at first. After a moment, he has the sense to come in and shut the door behind him. "What are you doing? Why are you wearing armour?" he asks, full of wary unease. I can't stop packing long enough to answer him; I'm running out of time.

"They're coming for me tonight. Ripples of things I did in Ferelden, too many problems. It's not safe here anymore, not for me, not for Cassie. They've connected everything and they know who I am. I don't have a choice, I have to go, tonight, right now. It'll never stop, you know that, and I can't let her be stolen or turned into a pawn."

I cinch down one of the ties on the front of the bag that holds a rolled blanket.

"You have to?" Anders echoes pointedly, and I wince.

"Sometimes, yes. Sometimes it's about what _has to_ be done," I tell him flatly. "I wish that weren't the case, but you know it's true."

"And so you're leaving, on his say-so, just like that? In the middle of the night, no warning?" he asks, and I can feel myself wavering, because it makes so little sense, to just pick up and run, but at the same time, I don't think Zevran would ask this of me if it weren't the gods' honest truth.

"Yes, unfortunately, just like that," I say, nodding, finishing tying the last strap, then finally look up at Anders. He is very worried, very mistrustful of the situation. "I can't say I don't feel some hesitation, myself, but if I don't leave, what then? To just die here over a moment of dithering that cost us our chance at freedom? I don't think so. I have to protect my daughter." I bite my lip, then go over to him, giving him a tight hug. "Thank you, for everything. Please keep my things in a trunk. If I can, I'll send for them; if not, I'll send word." I hope. Anders hugs me back, and I can feel the tension in him, the misgivings.

Wrapping Cassie up tightly in a bundle, I strap her to my chest, and Zevran takes up the cradle, attaching it to one of the packs so that it won't swing about too much, then looks between me and Anders. "Time is short," he says, and I nod, shouldering my own pack.

He heads for the door, and Anders moves aside to let him pass, still looking at me. Ponka follows, and I look after them as they go down the hall a few paces.

"You're sure about this?" Anders asks, as I impulsively grab a hairstick off the bedside table and tuck it in my pocket, last-minute.

"No, but... it's the only thing that makes sense." I flash him a tense smile. "I'll see you again." I hope.

"Remember you have a forest here," he murmurs as I turn away, and I close my eyes for just a second, letting out a breath.

"I'll never forget, Anders... You're the best friend I've ever known, the brother I never had. I'm so glad I met you... I owe you my life. Take care of yourself... and if you see Lels again before I do, kiss her once, for me." Oh, his eyes. I'll never forget the fear, the worry, the love in them.

I follow Zevran, putting my faith in him again as he leads me out of the Warden compound through the cellar. Anders does us the favour of distracting the midnight kitchen maid, giving me a doubtful eye as I slip down the ladder behind Zevran, and I blow him a kiss. I'll miss him terribly, and I hope he fares well, because... I doubt I'll be back.

There's a door in the very back, a short thing that looks like it'd just be a cabinet, but it leads to a cobwebbed tunnel. Distantly, I hear Anders' voice, indignant, then angry, then chanting, and the thunderclap of his lightning. My heart clenches and I turn back, looking over my shoulder. Oh gods, Anders... Darting around me, Zevran shuts the door almost silently, then grabs my hand, dashing down the corridor, forcing me to leave him behind, to not make his fighting for me meaningless. I can't help but follow, Ponka right behind me, holding Cassie tightly to my breast as she drowses, lulled by the rocking of my body and the broken sleep she's had.

I can't look at Zevran the same way anymore. He's not some amazing, infallible creature. I can't afford to be awe-struck and heart aflutter.

Never mind the fact that I _am_ feeling that way, as I watch his back and the spill of white-blond hair that hangs down it.

The tunnel lets us out in a warehouse down by the docks, just judging by the smell, but the presence of Isabella is what really throws me. I stand there, blinking in shock.

"Don't look so surprised, kitten," she says, and winks at me. "Shall we?" she asks next, and I realise there's an open trap door in the middle of the room, leading to the dark waters below. Zev goes first, giving me a hand down, then catching Ponka, and holding the skiff level while Isabella piles a bunch of empty crates on; Zev motions for me to lay down in the bottom of the boat, and does the same, next to me. Isabella throws a drop cloth over us and piles the crates around, then takes the oars.

The boat smells like seaweed and sand, and the dirty water on the bottom of it seeps between the joints in my armour. I don't dare shift, for fear of moving the boat unnaturally for one that is meant to be only captained by one person. Cassie wiggles against me, snoring softly in her sleep, and I feel the heat of Zev's breath coast across my forehead.

He's close... so close. Oh, oh gods, the scent of ocean and clove and leather, the man that brought me here, the slap of the water and the rocking of a boat - the first things to reach my perceptions upon arrival in this strange world that has become my home, the combination inescapable, permeating my life, tugging on me again in a way I cannot deny, cannot defy. Circles and circles, we begin and end and begin again, the spiral of life eternal.

_Aphrodite protect me, Hera shield me, Athena guide my sight, oh gods, please._

This is the longest boat ride of my life, despite the fact that it doesn't take an hour. Neither of us speak, neither of us moves, but oh, I'm so aware of him, of every inch of us that almost touches, of the heat of his breath, the strand of his hair that fell across my cheek when it was blown by the breeze of the settling canvas.

The boat slows, and I feel a bump of docking; Zevran rises when Isabella moves the crates, pulling the canvas away, and holds his hand out to me to help me up. There is something extremely significant and heart-wrenching in the act of taking it. He sees it; we both know it.

Isabella's ship is underway within minutes, and we're in a cabin below decks. My hands are shaking as I sit on the bed, not sure what to do with myself now. Ponka flops down across the door with a heavy whuff as soon as Zevran shuts it.

This is madness.

Somehow, it never seems like I have any true options, there's only what must be done. I couldn't have made any other choice. The Crows don't just knock on the door and say, "Hello, can I be your assassin today?"

There is a very long moment where Zevran and I just stare at each other, and finally, I'm the one to break the silence. "That was too easy," I say, still keyed up from the trip here, from waiting for disaster to follow us and fall on our heads.

He nods. "As I said, I wished for there to be some assurance of safety. It is lovely when a plan comes together, yes?"

A long moment passes while I stare at him, feeling numb, knowing this is a veneer over a roiling mass. "Where are we going?"

He looks up at the map on the wall, all the familiar countries and terrain, and my heart clenches. Where could we possibly go? The Anderfels? Crossing the room, he takes a deep breath.

"I was thinking... Somewhere... around _here_," he says, and his finger lands on the wall, far from the eastern edge of the frame, into the beyond and the uncharted territories on the other side of the ocean. He looks at me over his shoulder, holding my eyes for a long moment. "We have wasted so much time, _cara_. Please... let us be done with it. I would beg for your forgiveness, if I knew how."

I shake my head. "I don't know. We've hurt each other, very badly, and more than once." Struggling to my feet, I unwind Cassie, who is beginning to fuss, and start removing my armour. She needs to eat, and my breasts are sore from fullness. As I pull off my gambeson, it occurs to me that I'll need to bare my breasts in front of him.

Ah, well.

Quickly now, both Cassie and I feeling the urgency, I get us arranged on the bed, heedless in my need to be done with the discomfort of milk-bearing for the moment. Zevran has the strangest expression on his face when I look up, and I don't quite know what to do, finding myself blushing.

I died for him. He died for me.

What does that make us?

At least it's a better story than Romeo and Juliet.

I sigh. There is great hypocrisy in punishing him for crimes I've committed myself. I don't think I could ever hate him, not as long as I live, and now it's just him and me against the world again. If I'm being honest with myself, it always has been, really.

"All right; there really is no point in denying what we both know is true. The bond never broke, for a reason, and that reason is both of us can't let go." The darkness swirling in his eyes echoes mine, and I swallow hard as he shifts as though he would come closer, then changes his mind. "_I_ couldn't let go," I admit softly, and this changes something, smooths out a few of the stress lines around his eyes.

How can I read him so well? We must both be so tired by now. Things won't be easy, and we've got a lot of discussion ahead of us, because we can't go on like we have, and we're broken enough that I'm very worried about where we're going from here. So, no more lies and hiding, especially not if we're going to be crossing the sea for months.

I'm aware that we've just been frozen, staring at each other for a long, painful moment. At last, it is me who breaks eye contact, looking down at Cassie as her latch begins to slip and I have to adjust her before she gives me a hickey.

"Is there nothing I can do?" he asks his voice just as quiet as mine, and I look up again. He's standing there looking so lost, and there are echoes and echoes of the moment we actually met, both of us so much our own islands, and I just can't do it anymore. I can't. We need each other. We always have, and denying it has cost us a great deal.

I nod, gesturing to the open space on the bed beside me. "Sit with me, and I'll tell you what happened in Ferelden. And then... we can sleep, I hope," I say, weary beyond measure. "The rest can wait for tomorrow."

The relief, the hope in his eyes breaks my heart, because I know the fact I can see it means it's strong enough that his mask can't hide it.

Gods protect us.

He sinks onto the bed next to me slowly, as though I might change my mind at any moment and suddenly kick him to the floor. When I make no moves, his eyes drop to the tiny bundle in my arms. I realise with a start that his hands are shaking as he tentatively reaches out to stroke a fingertip over the soft spot in the centre of Cassie's head, and the strangest, most fragile smile trembles around the corners of his mouth.

"Ah, _cara_, she is as beautiful as you," he whispers, and when he looks at me again, I feel my heart crack. There won't be any resisting him, not in the long run.

Oh, my dangerous man. We've got a lot of making up to do, but there will be plenty of time for it, and more besides. Do I dare think of it, now? Building a life with him? Can that be? Can _we_ just be?

Oh gods, please.

Raising my eyes to the map on the wall, I look at it, and the long expanse of sea, and then at him, and the promise of sunlight in his eyes.

For us, beyond the reach of the Crows, anything is possible.


End file.
